


Not Here to Make Friends

by StarSpangled (Senforza)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reality Show, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, F/M, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Minor Sharon Carter/Everyone, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers has a Sexuality Crisis, TW: Homophobic Language in Week 5/Chapter 6, The Bachelorette (TV) - Freeform, and crack, as one does on the Bachelorette
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-08 10:09:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 121,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17979362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Senforza/pseuds/StarSpangled
Summary: In which Steve, a gallery owner from Brooklyn Heights, and Bucky, a mechanic from Red Hook, are contestants on Sharon Carter's season of The Bachelorette. Thrust into a surprisingly fabricated reality television world with twenty-four other eligible bachelors, the two of them are expected to fall in love within nine short weeks.And they do, but not with the lead.





	1. Casting

**Audition Tape: StevenRogers-9172637422.mov**

_[A blonde, clean-shaven man in a pressed button-down shirt is being filmed from the waist-up in front of a stretch of warm beige wall. He fumbles with his hands and plasters on a smile, but his gaze is fixed determinedly on the camera as if preparing to do battle with it. Someone off-screen clears their throat.]_

“Introduce yourself. Tell us your name, age, and what you do for a living.”

“Hey. I mean, hi there! I mean...shoot, no. That’s not gonna—Sam, start over.”

“No. I am not starting the first question over for the _fifty thousandth_ time. Keep going.”

“I can’t just send in the tape with the—”

“Name. Age. Occupation.”

_[The man shoots a vicious glare just over the top of the camera, briefly dropping his facade before starting over.]_

“...Fine. I’m Steve, I’m twenty-eight years old, and I own a private art gallery right here in Brooklyn.”

“...Uh, the next question is supposed to be where you live, but you just answered that, so—”

_[The man runs a hand through his hair as the camera shakes a little, presumably as the person filming laughs.]_

“For Christ’s sake. Start over, Sam, start _over—”_

“You’re the one on tape, Rogers, _you_ start over. I’ll just cut the first part out.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“The marvels of modern technology, amirite?”

“Oh my _God,_ shut up. Okay. Right. Okay.”

_[The camera lists sideways as the person holding it lowers their stance.]_

“Deep breaths. Honestly, Steve, it’s just a dumb ol’ reality dating show.”

“It is _not_ dum—whatever. Alright, I’m good.”

“Whenever you’re ready, then.”

_[The camera straightens again. The man takes a deep breath and visibly relaxes, the line of his shoulders easing.]_

“Okay...Hey, everyone.”

“‘Everyone?’ Who exactly do you think is—”

“Alright! Alright...hi! I’m Steve, I’m a twenty-eight year old gallery owner from New York City, and I’m applying to be a contestant on the Bachelorette.”

* * *

  **Four Days Earlier**

“This show is garbage.” Natasha shoots Steve a pointed look from where she’s perched atop the couch like Cleopatra, swirling a long-stemmed glass in her loose fingers with all the lazy confidence of an alley cat. She slides her critical gaze over to the gas station wine in her hand, raising an eyebrow before downing the entire thing in one gulp. “This show is complete and utter trash. I _love_ it.” She raises her glass in the air so it can be seen from the kitchen. “Hey, Wilson! Another!”

“I don’t know why I bother.” Sam rolls his eyes even as he dutifully pads over and splashes some more $3 alcohol into her offered glass. “I have _better_ things to do with my Mondays, man. Watching this show is the whitest thing I do.” He wrinkles his nose and retreats back to the kitchen, returning with three bowls of different flavored ice cream. He sets down cappuccino chip on the coffee table in front of Natasha, sighing and dunking two maraschino cherries into it when she coughs pointedly. “I could be at a bar. _Drinking._ Forgetting I know you assholes.”

“But instead you’re here, drinking, watching trashy reality TV with us assholes.” Natasha sighs as she heaves herself upward, setting the glass down onto a coaster and picking up her ice cream with a nod. “Hey, turn up the volume. I think she’s about to cry.”

“You’re stone-cold, Romanoff.” Steve shakes his head from where he’s sitting on the corner of the shaggy rug, leaning over and snagging the remote control from off the far side of the coffee table. Sam sits down next to him, offering him his usual bowl of Neapolitan; he takes it with a sigh of relief, digging his spoon in a long stripe through all three flavors before popping it into his mouth.

“Doesn’t mean I’m wrong. Ah, there you go.” Natasha leans forward again, grabbing and raising her glass theatrically to the TV screen before drinking from it heavily with a single pinky up. “To industry-inflicted emotional trauma!”

“Hear, hear!” Sam picks up Steve’s room temperature beer and toasts the screen himself, raising a pointed eyebrow toward him as if daring Steve to rise to the bait.

Which he does, because he’s weak and has too many opinions. “Aw, c’mon, you two. I’m sure it’s not _that_ bad.” He shifts uncomfortably onto his knees so he can get a better angle of the screen, which now displays a girl sobbing uncontrollably in the sparkliest effing dress known to man. It _really_ isn’t helping his point. “Have you ever thought that maybe these girls really fall for the guy? I mean, it’s not like ‘The Bachelor’ has _never_ turned out a successful couple.”

“One.” Sam looks impressively judgmental, for a man with cookie dough ice cream smeared across his face. “The show has turned out _one_ successful couple.”

“I could’ve sworn it was six.”

“Mm-mm.” Natasha takes the spoon out of her mouth when both men look her way. “No, ‘The Bachelorette’ was six. ‘The Bachelor’ is one. That’s a total of seven. Out of _thirty-six.”_ She rolls her eyes. “Face it, Steve, this is one argument you can’t win.”

“I’m not saying it’s a guarantee, I’m just saying it’s _possible.”_ Steve nods toward the screen, where two people are now heavily making out within viewing distance of the crier in the sparkly dress. Still not helping his point. “You can’t say it’s never happened before.”

“Dude, if the producers really wanted them to ‘find love’ on this show, they wouldn’t have this fucked up elimination structure with twenty-six girls trying to date one guy. The lead would just eliminate everyone else the moment he found out who he wanted to date most, and the two of _them_ would fly around for ten weeks getting to know each other.” Sam holds out his hand in Natasha’s general direction, and she tosses a throw pillow to him with expert precision. He slides it under his butt. “But then the villains wouldn’t be kept around, and then there wouldn’t be any drama, and then no one would be insecure, and then it wouldn’t be any fun to watch."

“It’s like ‘The Hunger Games’ meets ‘Desperate Housewives’.” Natasha sips at her wine primly. “And the desperation is what keeps it fresh.”

“You’re both sadists, I swear.” Steve gestures up at the TV, which is finally offering him something to help his point; there’s someone familiar on screen comforting the crying girl, a woman with beach-blonde waves offering her tissues and a bottle of water with a sympathetic frown. “Look, see? There are nice people on the show, too. Kind-hearted individuals who actually want to find love.”

“Yeah, but people like Sharon are far and few between. I think the last contestant who was actually self-aware before her was, what, Sharleen from Juan-Pablo’s season?” Natasha squints, tossing her head back on the arm of the couch and thinking.

“Nah, there was Kaitlyn from Chris’s.”

“She ended up being ‘Bachelorette’ after she was eliminated, that doesn’t count. Anyone who agrees to star in their own season is automatically no longer self-aware.”

“I dunno, she didn’t let anyone fuck with her or her choices even though the media kinda gave her hell. I can dig that.” Sam glances up at the screen, where Sharon’s now speaking directly at the camera in front of a generic background of lanterns and drapes. “But yeah, so far Sharon seems sane. Might even join the fabled ranks of contestants I follow after she’s eliminated.”

“What makes you so sure she’ll be eliminated?” Steve frowns. “She seems sweet enough, and I think she’s got a really good connection with the lead—”

“Not enough airtime.” Natasha dismisses him with a wave of her hand, frowning down at her wine; it’s only because he’s known her so long that he realizes she’s blinking blearily, more than a little drunk. “They’re cutting too much of her footage for her to be getting the ‘winner’ edit. It’s gonna be either the pediatric nurse or the hand model.” She snorts into her glass as she raises it back to her lips. “I _love_ this show.”

“That’s...” Steve frowns, thinking back, and realizes with a wave of resignation that he has no counter-argument. He wonders briefly why the only people he makes friends with are people who know how to shut him down. That’s probably _why_ he makes friends with them, actually. “...a shame, then.” He takes another bite of ice cream. “It looks like the other women in the house like her, and she’s got a good head on her shoulders. Any guy’d be lucky to date her.”

“Yeah, which means she’s too good to be looking for love on the fucking _‘Bachelor.’”_ Sam rolls his eyes and takes a shaker of chocolate sprinkles from the table, applying them liberally to his ice cream. “She’s gonna escape unscathed. If anything, she’s lucky.”

“Maybe.” Steve sighs, putting his bowl down on the hardwood with a soft _clink_ and moving to lean his head back against the sofa. He closes his eyes as Natasha scratches him comfortingly on the head, smiling at the slight dig of her nails. “That sucks, though. I was really rooting for her.”

“...Hm.” There’s something in Natasha’s voice that makes Steve open his eyes; she’s narrowing her gaze at him, spoon sticking out of her mouth at an angle as she talks around it. “Hey, Sam, can you toss me my phone?”

“No.” Even as he says it, Sam sighs and stands, heading back to the kitchen. He returns a few seconds later with her purse, leaning over to throw the phone with a gentle underhand; they’ve all learned not to _actually_ toss it since the debacle during last year’s finale. “What’s so important that it can’t wait until commercials, anyway?”

“Reality Steve.” Natasha swipes in her password and begins maneuvering the screen skillfully with one hand, picking up her wine with the other without even looking.

“C’mon, Nat.” Steve frowns up at her through a flop of blonde hair. “I told you, I don’t want spoilers. I believe you about Sharon, okay? You don’t have to prove your point.”

“It’s not that.” She mutters, only half-focused. “Dammit, he might be the only reliable source of spoilers for this stupid show, but that man can _not_ design a functional website. Episode-by-Episode spoilers...Ah, there we go.” She scrolls through the page for a while, jabbing viciously at her screen a few more times before her face abruptly lights up. It is, as usual, the most terrifying expression Steve has ever seen. “Oh. _Oh._ Well, this is interesting.”

“What?” Sam leans over from where he’s picking up his ice cream, throwing himself unceremoniously on the couch by Natasha and leaning over. She flips the phone screen over to him, and Steve watches as his face abruptly takes on a smirk, which never mind, _that_ is the most terrifying expression Steve has ever seen. “Oh, you can’t be serious.” His eyes flicker over to Steve, who tilts his head in silent question. “Oh, this should be _fun.”_

“What.” Steve deadpans, trying very hard not to let his heart palpitate as the two turn matching grins toward him. It’s like looking into the pits of hell itself; getting those twin smirks fills him with familiar existential dread. “You’re giving me that look again. _What is it.”_

“See for yourself,” Natasha replies, flipping the phone over in her hand so Steve can look. He has to turn his head at an uncomfortable angle to catch a glimpse of the small font, muttering it aloud as he goes to make sure he’s getting it right.

“‘Jeremy is engaged to Nicole’—damn it, Nat, didn’t I just say I didn’t want spoilers?!”

“Sorry, sorry.” Natasha presses her lips together, eyes shining with mirth. “That’s not it, though. Keep going.”

Steve gives her a lingering glare before bending back over and continuing on. “‘Now that this season is complete and there isn’t anything further to figure out, that turns our attention to the next ‘Bachelorette.’ As we know, it’s usually a girl that finishes in the top four of the previous season of the ‘Bachelor’. From experience we know it usually isn’t the runner-up, and Kayla has been getting a questionable edit all season, so I think it’s safe to say she’s out. That leaves Sharon and Grace with the best chances out of this year’s contestants, and given that Grace will be appearing in the ‘Bachelor in Paradise’ spin-off this summer, I just don’t see it happening. All things considered, it looks like Sharon Carter will be gracing our TV screens late May of next year. More power to her, she’s been a voice of reason all season long.’” He raises his head. “Okay, you’ve made your point, she doesn’t win. And?”

 _“And,”_ says Sam, with a smile that reminds Steve of the time they watched ‘The Shining’ together, “she’s probably going to be the next Bachelorette.”

“...And?!” Steve raises an eyebrow.

 _“And,”_ says Natasha, with a smile that reminds Steve of the time they watched that documentary about female black widow spiders ripping the heads off the males on ‘National Geographic’, “you’re going to audition for her season.”

For a second, the three of them stare at each other as dramatic music plays over the speakers.

“Ha, ha. Very funny.” Steve finally rolls his eyes and turns back to the television, where the crying girl is now chugging her water bottle at a truly alarming rate. “You guys are assholes, you know that?”

“Of course we are,” Natasha says, reaching over Steve’s head to grab the remote. She makes slow, deliberate eye contact with him before very pointedly turning the television off and grabbing him by the shoulders. “But we’re also dead serious. You’re gonna apply to be a contestant on the next season of the ‘Bachelorette’.”

“Yeah, for some fool reason you think the system _works_ or whatever. Plus, we all know how awkward you get around women.”

“...And your solution is to put me in direct competition with twenty-five other men on _national television?”_

“Who knows, maybe the change of scenery is what you’ve needed all along. You always _do_ seem to get your act together when the situation turns into a competition of some sort. ‘Sides, I could use the break from setting you up.” Sam rolls his eyes and takes Steve’s beer off the table again, emptying it. “I swear to God, being your wingman is my punishment for serial homicide in a past life or something.”

“Hey, now.” Steve turns pleadingly between his two friends, who exchange glances. “I’m not _that_ bad, am I?”

“Yes, yes you are.” Natasha takes another pointed sip of wine.

“Anyway, you said it yourself; you think the system could work, you suck ass at the New York dating scene, and you like Sharon from what you’ve seen.” Sam sighs and maneuvers himself so he’s half-falling off the couch and swipes a spoonful of Natasha’s ice cream from the table. Natasha swats at him half-heartedly and steals some of his ice cream back in retaliation before switching back to alcohol. “The show is literally made for losers like you.”

“I mean...I guess?” Steve glances between them, scratching the back of his neck doubtfully as he thinks it over. The _words_ Sam is saying make sense, sure, but it still seems incredibly far-fetched. “Just because I think Sharon seems nice from what I’ve seen of her on TV doesn’t mean I wanna _marry_ her, though, and we all know pretty much every season ends in some sort of proposal.”

“Reason number eight-thousand forty-two why this show’s premise is horseshit,” Sam mutters to himself. “Look, do you go into _normal_ dates with women thinking about whether or not you could end up marrying them?”

“Uh...kinda?”

“Oh my God, he’s a disaster.” Natasha puts down her wine glass and leans over, grabbing Steve’s face in both her hands and shaking him around a bit as she forces him to meet her gaze. “Listen, Rogers, we’re not asking you to sign your life away, but you should at least _audition._ If you met Sharon Carter at a bar tomorrow and she was available, would you ask her out on a date?”

Steve has to take a second to think about it, which he immediately regrets because Natasha begins shaking him around again. When he tries to speak, his words come out garbled because of the grip she has on his face. “Yesh, probably. She sheems nice. Plush, she shays she wash in the Army, and it’sh alwaysh—” He rubs his chin as Natasha groans and lets go of him, glaring darkly. “—it’s always nice to find someone with shared life experience.”

“Then think of auditioning like asking her out on a date. No one’s asking you to get married.” Natasha bops him contemptuously on the head for good measure. “You’re your own boss, so it’s not like there’s anyone to fire you if you go off on your own for three months. There’s only, like, a one percent chance you’ll get chosen anyway. And who knows?” She picks up her wine again and smirks at him over the rim of it. “Maybe you’ll prove Sam and I wrong and wind up engaged with twenty kids. And then you can hold it over our heads forever, in the way only Steve Rogers can.”

“Ignoring that...” Steve glances between his friends dubiously, both of whom are meeting his gazes head on with surprisingly little judgement. “You _really_ think I should apply?”

Natasha nods. Sam shifts back into sitting position with a sigh and a smile. “It’ll definitely make a great story to tell your kids, if nothing else.”

It’s not like he’s about to make a decision this big over wine and ice cream on a regular Monday past eight o’clock PM, but Steve indulges his friends and mulls it over for a second. They aren’t _wrong,_ per se; he’s always been notoriously awful at dating, and while he doubts the cameras are going to make him _more_ comfortable, Sam’s right when he says he seems to perform better under pressure. If Sharon really is slated to be the next Bachelorette, which Steve doesn’t doubt (Reality Steve’s predictions are rarely wrong), he definitely has at least a passing interest in her from what he’s seen. There’s minimal risk, he’s not planning on any major undertakings in the near future, and he’s not the type to pass on a new experience—especially if that experience could potentially (a _very slim chance,_ he’s aware) result in a stable romantic relationship at the end. He’ll be the first to admit he’s something of an idealist when it comes to these sorts of things, and while he’s not naive enough to ignore the frankly dismal track record of the show thus far…

Well. Who knows?

“I’ll think about it,” he finally settles on, meeting their gazes steadily before smirking. “If you guys wanna get rid of me that badly...”

“Yeah, somehow I think we’ll do just fine without you.” Natasha rolls her eyes, pointing the mouth of her empty glass at Sam. “Now turn the TV back on, will you? I wanna see if Katy gets eliminated.”

* * *

  **The Bachelor/Bachelorette**

**Nomination**

 **Today’s Date:** August 7th, 2018

 **I am nominating a:**      X **Bachelor**              **Bachelorette**

 **Nominee’s Name:** James Buchanan ‘Bucky’ Barnes

 **Nominee’s City and State of Residence:** NYC, NY (Brooklyn)

 **Does the Nominee know you are nominating him/her for “The Bachelor/Bachelorette”?** **Yes** X **No**

* * *

There are a few reasons why ‘The Emerald Ounce’ is Bucky’s favorite bar. It’s exactly halfway between his apartment and his auto shop, for one. It serves craft beer that _actually_ _tastes okay,_ none of that hipster bullshit, although Bucky will be the first to admit he does indeed occasionally indulge in said hipster bullshit. He gets on well with the bartender, who happens to be a personal friend of Morita’s. The bar’s popular without being too crowded, casual without being too trashy—there’s even a healthy population of single men and women around his age on any given night, which means that if Bucky just really needs to get laid at any point in particular he can pretty consistently find someone to suit his needs, whether that’s dicking someone or getting dicked.

There is also an _alley out back where he can burn Clint Barton’s dead fucking body._

“Clint,” he says calmly, setting down his beer as he pretends not to actively contemplate all the different ways he can disembowel the man sitting next to him. Said man just raises an eyebrow and takes a drink of his own, looking distinctly unbothered by the fact that he is about to _die._ “Would you care to explain the voicemail I got earlier today?”

“To do that, I’d have to _know_ about the voicemail you got earlier today.” Clint goes for another drink, which he’d better drink while he can, because he’s about to get shot in a ditch by the highway. “You gonna let me know about it or what, Barnes?”

“Oh, I think you know.”

“I can guarantee you that I really, really don’t.” Clint looks over to him, eyebrows furrowing. “Seriously, what is it? You gotta tell me now, you’ve got me curious.” He abruptly lights up and leans over, which is a bad tactical move because Bucky is this close to leaning over and ripping his throat out with his bare fucking hands. “What, did the shop pool finally win the lottery? Because you promised me a new car if you did, an Altima or better, remember—”

“No, no I didn’t fucking _win the lottery,”_ Bucky snarls, finally fumbling into his leather jacket for his phone. He lays it face up on the counter, navigates his way to the proper tab, and turns up the speakers as loud as he can because he has nothing left to lose, not when the entire fucking shop has been playing the voicemail on repeat since he first got the message on his lunch break. “What I _did_ is get a call from some bigshot TV producer named Christine Everhart, telling me some fucker I knew had nominated me for the upcoming season of some fancy TV show called ‘The Bachelorette’, and that they were interested in me and wanted me to send them a videotape introducing myself.” He jabs his finger into his screen to prove his point, relishing in the brief stunned silence as the voicemail starts playing. His victory is short-lived, because Clint immediately ducks his head below the counter so Bucky can’t see him as he starts to howl with sadistic laughter. “You seem to be finding this _funny,_ Clint. What, ringing any bells?”

Clint resurfaces, looking a little red in the face, and Bucky can _see_ the corner of his mouth twitch as he lifts his mug back to his lips, that asshole. “Nope, nope, not at all.” He snickers to himself as Bucky honest-to-God growls, grinning into the amber liquid. “Sounds like you’re pretty angry at that fucker you know, though. You should rethink that. I’m sure he only had your best interests at heart.”

 _“That fucker is dead to me.”_ Bucky pockets his phone, ignoring the slightly disturbed looks he’s getting from nearby patrons. “That fucker is being written out of my will, I’m never fixing his stupid SUV again, and he’s gonna pay me back the four-hundred twelve dollars and twenty cents he’s owed me for the past month right fucking now, at this fucking bar. That _fucker_ is gonna call this Miss Everhart back _yesterday_ and tell her he’s made the biggest fucking mistake in his _entire fucking life.”_ Bucky grabs the bottom of Clint’s mug, which is beginning to tremble from where he’s lifted it to hide his face, and slams it back down on the counter as his friend finally loses it and begins cackling like the sick, sick bastard he truly is. “‘The Bachelorette,’ Clint? Reality TV dating? _REALLY?!”_ He has to lean over and pry Clint’s hands away from where they’re covering his face, just so he can properly direct his most murderous stare into the cold, dead eyes of his laughing friend. Said laughing friend only laughs harder, because said laughing friend is an asshole. “Is this funny to you, Barton? Is this a joke to you?!”

“Yes.” Clint hiccups at him through watery eyes, shrugging at him soberly before bursting back into laughter. “Literally. I _literally_ sent that in as a joke—Jesus, I can’t believe they went for it. Bucky _fuckin’_ Barnes. They want you for the ‘ _Bachelorette!_ ’”

“Shut the fuck up, you dick, I played that voicemail at _work!”_ Bucky lets him go and Clint immediately starts slapping the table hysterically, laughing into his elbow. The patrons at the bar start actively moving away from them towards a far corner, which _good,_ because Bucky is a few seconds away from strangling the closest thing that moves. “I played that thing in front of _everyone,_ and they _won’t stop giving me shit about it.”_ He leans in, hissing his hopefully disgusting beer breath right into Clint’s face. “Do you know the things people do on that show? Gabe keeps showing me clips of shirtless men gazing dramatically into the fucking ocean. Dum-Dum won’t stop quoting sappy bullshit.” Bucky grabs Clint by the collar of his shirt and yanks him closer. “Did you know there was a group date once where twelve men did a shirtless photo-shoot with one woman? In Speedos?! Because I never needed to know that, Barton. _Never.”_

“And how _do_ you know that?”

“Because Monty was looking that shit up all afternoon, you jackass, _that’s_ why!” Bucky throws his hands up in the air as Clint nearly topples backwards off his stool in laughter. “I could’ve lived the rest of my natural born life without knowing a show like this existed.” He rolls his eyes and goes back to his beer, downing it like he’s got something to prove. “Did you see the Wikipedia article? Twenty-six men locked in a house trying to simultaneously date one woman while she systematically dumps-slash-eliminates them until two of them are left? And then _both_ of them propose? And then one gets rejected on national television?! Who the fuck _watches_ this bullshit?”

“Laura’s cousin.” Clint’s expression finally fades back into something resembling normalcy as he leans toward Bucky over his beer, grinning wildly. “So, you gonna do it?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” Bucky flags down the bartender, who approaches them with an expression similar to that of a wounded gazelle approaching a lion. He watches distractedly as he’s poured another mug of beer, nodding in half-hearted thanks when it slides into his hand across the counter. “And while we’re at it, I’m also thinking of moving to Utah and joining Jehovah’s Witness. I really think Jesus is my one true calling.”

“The ones in Utah are Mormons—”

“No, I’m not fucking doing it!” He slaps the counter hard enough that a pile of peanut shells further down the bar bounces in place before tumbling to the floor. “What on _Earth_ makes you think I’d do something like that?!”

“I mean.” Clint waves a hand distractedly around in the air and steals Bucky’s beer, which hasn’t he done enough damage already?! “Ever since Dernier moved in with his girlfriend, you’ve been talking about settling down and cooling it with the truly alarming amount of casual sex you’ve been having since, what, undergrad—”

“Yeah, by which I meant ‘set me up with one of your colleagues,’ not ‘sign me up for fucking reality television!’” Bucky snarls, snatching back his drink vindictively and setting it down on the side of the bar away from Clint. “I don’t need to go to _Los Angeles_ for a single date, I can find people just fine on my own—”

“Aw, don’t be like that, Bucky.” Clint stretches his hand out on the table and Bucky stares at it contemptuously before relenting and sliding his alcohol into it, because Clint’s already drank out of it anyway, there’s really no point now. “I’ll be honest, I don’t know too much about the show either, but from what I’ve seen it’d be an interesting experience if nothing else.” He meets his gaze over the rim of the cup. “You’ve been talking about travelling too, right? Apparently, this show takes you all over the world and organizes activities you wouldn’t be able to do on your own. All expenses paid, no hassle on your part. Really, it’s killing two bird with one stone.”

“There’s a fine, fine line between ‘interesting’ and ‘idiotic.’” Bucky takes Clint’s beer in retaliation and tries it himself, pulling a face. It’s fucking disgusting, which shouldn’t surprise him, because if he didn’t already know that Clint Barton made truly terrible decisions this whole Bachelorette thing would really be driving the point home. “Look, you didn’t _see_ the clips from that show. Sure, I wanna travel. Sure, I wanna have a long-term partner. But I don’t need to go make an ass of myself on national television to do either of those things.” He discreetly leans over and begins pouring the gross beer down the sink, ignoring the scandalized gasp on his right because the fucker deserves it. “It’s not like they’re offering to cast me or anything, anyway—they just want me to film a proper audition, since I was so kindly _nominated.”_

“Yeah, so why not go for it?” Clint snatches the empty glass out of his hands and sets it down on a napkin, shooting him a glare and draining Bucky’s beer for good measure. “Just give it a shot, see how it goes. If you get in, just go along for the ride, let it run its course.” He shrugs. “If it doesn’t, no skin off your back, right?”

Against his better judgement and all his higher mental facilities, Bucky thinks it over, because Clint is an asshole but he very rarely steers him wrong. The sad thing is, through the lens of a shit-ton of alcohol and five years since his last long-term partner, it makes a certain amount of sense—he’s been contemplating seeing more of the world and getting out of his comfort zone, and he certainly wouldn’t complain about doing so for free. If he thinks about it, there’s no better way to rebrand himself as a man looking for a steady relationship than proclaiming it to America on ABC (although really, that’s fucked up and speaks probably to what Bucky isn’t willing to admit is just a little bit of desperation). It’s been so long, he’s practically not sure _how_ to properly date anymore; at best, he’ll be bound to some woman by contractual celibacy with little chance to fuck it up the way he has for the past month, and at worst, he’ll be able to blame his failure on the presence of cameras rather than a lack of practice. Free vacation, free publicity...for a second, he almost seriously considers it.

“Dude.” He goes back to motioning for more alcohol, momentary lapse of sanity over. “I’m not gonna give _three months of my life_ to your practical joke.”

“Ah, well, it was worth a shot.” Clint shrugs, unperturbed, before a brief smile crosses his face. Bucky physically recoils at that smile, almost entirely on instinct. It is a _bad smile._ “Hey, remember that I.O.U. from that frat party senior year?”

Bucky remembers that I.O.U. very distinctly, because Clint’s been hanging it over his head for the past ten years of his life and every now and then it haunts his nightmares. He would’ve been in really, _really_ deep shit that night without Clint. “Yeah, so?”

Clint gives him a droll look.

“You aren’t _seriously_ cashing it in for this, are you?” Bucky puts down his hand slowly, fixing him with an incredulous stare. “Look, when I promised you ‘anything you wanted’ I thought it was gonna be, like, leaving you the dorm to yourself for a week or something with a monetary value of fifty dollars or less. Something proportional for a college student. Not _this.”_

“Shoulda chosen different wording, then.” Clint shrugs. “‘Anything I want.’ And what I want is for you to film an audition for this trash reality TV show.”

“What do you even _gain_ from me doing this, anyway?” Bucky reluctantly fishes back into his jacket and pulls out his phone, pressing his thumb to the center and letting it unlock; his fingers hover reluctantly over the button, poised to save Christine Everhart’s number.

“Blackmail material to get you to do even _more_ stuff for me.” Clint leans over the counter and snags a mint from the bowl down there. “It’s a return on my investment. Besides, on the snowball’s chance in hell you get in, it’ll earn me brownie points with Laura’s cousin. Who knows? It might even be good for you.” He pops it into his mouth, clacking it against his teeth cheerfully. “So? Not that you have a choice or anything, but...”

Bucky raises a skeptical eyebrow at Clint, even as he types out a text message to the new number in his phone. “You know nothing’s gonna come of this, right? I’m gonna answer these questions and be my normal asshole self, and they’re gonna immediately regret everything and never contact me again.”

“And I will have a video of you trying to get onto a reality dating television show.” Clint sucks on his mint, grinning at him cheekily. “You know how they ask you to talk about your hobbies and occupation? I'm gonna get to take glamour shots of you posing with your motorcycles.” He presses his fingertips together with a smile. “Glamour shots _shirtless._ Maybe we’ll even get you a head start on the photo shoot with the Speedos.”

“Man, _fuck_ you,” Bucky laughs to himself, because what does he have to lose, really, and presses send.

* * *

  **Interview Footage: SR_NYC_107.01.mxf 00:35:42**

_[Steve Rogers is positioned comfortably with one leg over the other, smiling broadly as a couple of people laugh off-screen. He’s sitting in a lone folding chair in what looks to be a hotel conference room, dressed in a form-fitting t-shirt and worn jeans; his hair is mussed, and he sports a full beard. Finally, one of the people off-screen clears his throat.]_

“It looks like our time’s up, Steve, but it’s been really great talking to you.”

_[Steve sits up a little straighter, surprised, and his gaze flickers briefly directly into the camera before he turns away self-consciously.]_

“Has it really been thirty minutes already? I’m sorry, I guess I kept rambling on—”

“It’s quite alright. This interview’s meant to be an open forum to see how well you articulate yourself on camera and give us producers a chance to know you. Rest assured, you did spectacularly.”

“I don’t know about that. I mean, my life isn’t really all that interesting...”

“That’s for us to decide, wouldn’t you agree? As a matter of fact...Pepper, do you think—?”

“Yes, me too. One second, Steve...”

_[A woman with red hair leans into view, holding out a manila envelope. Steve takes it with a deferential nod and a look of confusion.]_

“Ma’am—I mean, Ms. Potts, Pepper.” _[Steve smiles self-consciously.]_ “What is this?”

“We’re getting to that. Phil, if you’d do the honors?”

“Yes, of course. Now, Steve...we’re going to take footage of your interview back to the rest of the producers and go over our casting decisions as a group. In the meantime, we’d like you to follow the instructions in that packet—fill out the questionnaires, take some pictures to our specifications, and send them back to us. If we like what we see, we’ll call you again.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Hypothetically speaking, if you were to move onto the next round of casting, you would be one of the final fifty men in consideration for the next season of ‘The Bachelorette’; we’d fly you out to Los Angeles—all expenses paid, of course—for a final interview and a last set of tests and questions.” _[There’s the sound of paper rustling close to the camera.]_ “You got all that? Any questions?”

“No, I understand.” _[Steve stands and approaches, shaking hands with both of the people off screen.]_ “Thanks for taking the time out of your day to meet with me.”

“The pleasure’s ours.”

_[Steve turns with a polite smile of mixed confidence and relief before approaching the door.]_

“Oh, and Steve?”

_[He looks back.]_

“You didn’t have a beard in your audition tape, did you?”

“Ah, no.” _[He rubs his chin self-consciously.]_ “It’s something new I decided to try after I sent it in—took a month or so to grow into it, but I think it ended up looking okay. Why do you ask?”

“Shave it.”

_[Steve hesitates before smiling and nodding, then leaving the room. There’s a pause, then the producers begin moving around, rustling somewhere behind the camera.]_

“What do you think?”

“Personally? I like him.” _[The red-headed producer appears in view, adjusting the chair; she pauses, turning to the other producer off-camera.]_ “He’s endearingly self-conscious, but he projects a quiet confidence that I think will come across on camera. It’ll play well on screen, regardless of who we choose as the next Bachelorette. The blonde hair, blue eyes—we can sell him as the all-American boy next door. They’ll eat it up.” _[She chuckles to herself as she moves back off screen.]_ “He called me ‘ma’am.’”

“He called me ‘sir.’” _[The other producer sounds equally amused.]_ “I think so, too. Alright, let’s reset the camera and bring in the next candidate...”

* * *

  **Questionnaire Excerpt (Form C): James Buchanan Barnes**

 _Age:_ 29

 _Occupation:_ I own my own mechanic shop. It’s called ‘Howlie’s Garage’. I am not sorry.

 _Hometown:_ Brooklyn, baby.

 _Height:_ 6’0”

 _Tattoos:_ A red star on my left arm. I got it with the rest of my unit sometime after I was discharged.

 _What’s your worst date memory?:_ A girl who went on a homophobic rant in full view of a very crowded restaurant. It took me half an hour to find an opening and tell her I was bisexual.

 _What are the top three things on your bucket list?:_ Look, I know you use this section to plan dates so I’ll just say it now—if you can get me that anti-gravity chamber date I saw in that one episode of the Bachelor I’ll owe you big time. Alternatively, get me into the Smithsonian Aerospace after hours. I’m not above bribery.

 _How much do you like to go out dancing?:_ You let me onto that dance floor and I’ll burn it to the fucking ground, you don’t even know.

* * *

  **Questionnaire Excerpt (Form B): Steven Grant Rogers**

 _Age:_ 28

 _Occupation:_ Owner of private art gallery

 _Hometown:_ Brooklyn, NYC

 _Height:_ 6’0”

 _Tattoos:_ None

 _Would you consider yourself a lover of art?:_ It’s both my career and my favorite hobby, so yes, I’d like to think I’m reasonably experienced in that department.

 _Do you consider yourself a romantic?:_ Personally, I believe I’m an optimist; I certainly hope for the best, but I’m pretty sure I have a realistic grasp on things. My friends would disagree, though. They say I’m an idealist and romantic to the extreme.

 _Describe a time when you stopped competing in something?:_ Never.

* * *

  **Instant Messaging Log: James Buchanan Barnes and Clinton Francis Barton**

_9:23 PM: clint_

_9:23 PM: clint_

_9:23 PM: clint i’m in_

9:24 PM: i’m proud of you buddy

9:24 PM: but we’re three hours ahead in ny

9:24 PM: which means it’s midnight

9:24 PM: and i’m actually trying to sleep

_9:25 PM: i leave you for one day and you start going to bed ON TIME?!_

_9:25 PM: lame_

_9:26 PM: i’d keep bothering you but i gotta text my handler anyway_

9:26 PM: hold up

9:26 PM: you have a ‘handler?’

_9:27 PM: just some dude i’m supposed to go to if i need anything_

_9:27 PM: and also not supposed to leave my hotel room without asking_

_9:27 PM: they don’t want any contestants running into each other or something_

9:27 PM: creepy

_9:27 PM: the guy’s name is alexander pierce_

9:27 PM: pffft

9:27 PM: with a name like that i bet you ten bucks he’s bald

_9:27 PM: i’ll take that bet and raise you twenty_

9:27 PM: done

9:28 PM: pics for proof

9:28 PM: dammit i’m at a disadvantage here

_9:45 PM: haha he’s got a full head of hair_

_9:50 PM: and he’s also kind of a dick_

9:55 PM: i don’t believe you

_9:56 PM: i think i can sneak a picture, but he’s not gonna face the camera_

9:57 PM: then don’t bother

9:57 PM: could just be a picture of some rando

_9:58 PM: you’re still gonna owe me $20_

9:59 PM: fuck you

10:00 PM: okay i really gotta go

10:00 PM: night

_10:00 PM: laaaaaaaame_

_10:01 PM: g’night_

_8:50 AM: clint_

_8:50 AM: clINTCLIntclINTclintclINTCLINtclINT_

_8:51 AM: they gave me a giant envelope with questions again_

_8:52 AM: AGAIN_

_8:52 AM: as if i didn’t answer enough already_

_8:53 AM: and they gave me unlimited junk food and alcohol and they’re saying they’re gonna_ _lock me in a room until i fill everything out_

_8:53 AM: without my phone_

_8:54 AM: and not even a good bye_

_8:55 AM: what’s your excuse it’s like noon in nyc right aren’t you on your lunch break_

_8:55 AM: traitor_

9:01 AM: i’m on my lunch break NOW, at ACTUAL NOON

9:01 AM: so what’s up

9:10 AM: bucky?

9:11 AM: oh no he’s gone

9:20 AM: a moment of silence for our fallen comrade

10:00 AM: break’s over text me when you get out

2:00 PM: dude you okay

2:01 PM: i was kidding when i said you were dead but are you actually dead

_3:22 PM: clint_

3:22 PM: jesus dude it’s been like six hours wtf

_3:22 PM: clint there were 600 questions_

3:22 PM: what

_3:23 PM: SIX HUNDRED_

3:23 PM: like the first questionnaire? short answer?

_3:24 PM: true false and likert scale_

3:25 PM: eh then it’s not too bad

_3:25 PM: SIX HUNDRED_

3:25 PM: that’s the price you pay for greatness

_3:26 PM: clint they asked me if i’d ever sent nude photos before_

3:26 PM: you lied right

3:28 PM: RIGHT?

_3:29 PM: clint they asked me like six times if i’d ever thought of killing myself_

3:30 PM: okay but did you lie about the nudes

3:31 PM: because like half of new york has your nudes

3:31 PM: i’m pretty sure i have your nudes

_3:32 PM: by the sixth time i was ready to give it serious consideration_

3:33 PM: mood, honestly

3:34 PM: wait so they just straight up locked you in the hotel room for six hours with six hundred questions? sounds like prison

3:45 PM: barnes? you there?

_8:00 PM: sorry, they took my phone again_

8:01 PM: that’s rough buddy

8:01 PM: so what happened?

_8:02 PM: criminal background investigator_

_8:02 PM: urine and blood testing_

_8:02 PM: professional psychiatrist_

8:03 PM: damn daniel

8:03 PM: did they have your stuff from the physical therapist? va?

_8:05 PM: yeah, they say it won’t be an issue_

_8:05 PM: don’t know how i looked to the psych with like four beers in my system tho lol_

_8:06 PM: shit apparently i’m not supposed to tell you about this stuff_

_8:07 PM: or have my phone lol_

8:08 PM: failed step one

_8:09 PM: i’m about to go into a meeting with the entire production crew_

_8:10 PM: wish me luck_

8:10 PM: good luck

8:42 PM: tell me how it goes

_11:16 PM: i’m out_

_11:18 PM: there were like 25 people surrounding a single chair in firing squad formation, and it’s dead fucking silent for a solid minute, and then this woman with flaming red hair slaps down her folder and goes ‘howlie’s garage? REALLY?!’ and then everyone laughed, and then it was pretty casual_

_11:19 PM: so all in all not too bad, i think_

_11:20 PM: apparently i’ll hear back in two weeks about whether i’m cast or not_

_11:21 PM: there’s more but i’m on an early flight back tomorrow i’ll tell you in person_

12:00 AM: will you swing by in n out and get me a burger

_3:00 AM: what the fuck are you doing up at three in the morning_

3:01 AM: i could ask you the same thing

_3:01 AM: i have a plane to catch, what’s your excuse_

_3:02 AM: and no_

_3:02 AM: i’m not breaking tsa guidelines for you again, barton_

3:03 AM: that was one time, but fine

3:03 AM: you better bring me back stuff from all the sweet places you go when you’re on the show, though

3:05 AM: barnes? do you hear me?

4:00 AM: you’re on the plane aren’t you

4:01 AM: right i’m going back to sleep

_4:20 AM: no, i was going through security_

_4:20 AM: i’ll see you when i get back to nyc_

_4:21 AM: also, you say that like i’m even gonna get on the show lol_

_4:21 AM: frankly i’m not even sure how i made it this far_

_4:21 AM: still not convinced the entire thing isn’t some elaborate practical joke from you_

* * *

“Hey, Steve? This is Pepper Potts from ‘The Bachelorette’. After reviewing your information and going over our list of contestants, the producers have decided to offer you a spot on the upcoming season. If you could please call us back at your earliest convenience, we just have a few final matters to clear up...”

* * *

12:00 PM: still think this is a practical joke?

_12:01 PM: what the fuck have i done_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaaaand welcome to my fic for the stucky au big bang!
> 
> things you should know:  
> -this isn't actually completely finished. yet. whoops. sorry. it SHOULD be completely up by march 10th, if all goes according to plan; if i need an extension, you'll know. pray for me, y'all.  
> -this idea's been in the works since 2013, when smol!sen first began trash-watching the bachelor franchise. with that in mind, please be aware that i will a. be ripping a lot of dates/quotes directly from various seasons and b. may be working with outdated information, since i watched from sean lowe to kaitlyn bristowe (plus special exception made for nick's season because trainwreck and becca's season for research purposes).  
> -i also watched bachelor in paradise. not relevant, but still.  
> -i have never been on reality television and, while i've done some research on what goes on behind the scenes (read: 'reread every single recap sharleen joynt has ever written bc bless that woman'), i've definitely taken some creative liberties for the sake of drama and angst or whatever. particularly in later chapters.
> 
> i'll do chapter notes at the end of every actual chapter to point out references, but for the prologue there are a few people i have to thank for helping me create this monstrosity:  
> -my FUCKING AMAZING artists odetteandodile and kangofu_cb, this is my first bang ever and y'all have made it the best goddamn experience, thanks for putting up with my unresponsive ass and somehow STILL creating awesome art (legit, guys, i cannot WAIT to show you the art)  
> -kayla, for being my best (and first!) beta. for the love of christ i can't believe you put up with me. please keep putting up with me i swear this trainwreck's almost over. please. i'm so sorry.  
> -taja. my friend. my muse. you did not have to join me in this pit, and yet you joined me in this pit. when my strength flagged, your appreciation for this flaming dumpster heap of a franchise woke me up inside. god bless you and all your endeavors.  
> -grace, who was the first to let me scream into the void @ her. it was incoherent. how are you still alive.  
> -the mods of stuckyaubb. you may yet have more to deal with from me. god, i'm so sorry.
> 
> i'll make an active effort to respond to any questions (also i crave validation), so comments and kudos are always welcome and greatly appreciated! enjoy your stay!


	2. Week 1

“I’d like to propose a toast.” Steve goes to prop up his champagne glass and promptly loses his grip on it; it lists precariously in his fingers before he manages to right it, but not before a few drops get on his overpriced new tuxedo jacket. He remembers buying this jacket specifically for this reality TV show. He remembers spending _too much money_ on this jacket, specifically for this reality TV show. Steve realizes simultaneously both that he needs more alcohol for this and that he needs to stop day-drinking immediately before he disappoints his mother on national television, which just makes him more alarmed about the path he’s going down. “Shoot. Wait. I don’t...um...” At a loss, he brings it to his lips and takes a meek sip from the overflowing top, painfully aware of the five pairs of judgemental eyes on him and the uncomfortable sloshing of alcohol in his empty stomach. Fuck, did he not _eat_ anything before he got here?

“Don’t drink it all now,” Pepper calls from the shotgun seat of the limo, squinting into the camera lens clamped to the partition; as Steve’s producer, she’s been virtually the only human contact he’s had for the past three days he’s spent locked in his hotel room, and he’s already starting to worry a little about how readily he implicitly follows her directions. “Does anyone else have anything?”

“Hang on, I’m still confused.” The man across from Steve swirls his champagne glass in a slow circle and murmurs, more to himself than anyone else. He sways serenely with the movement of the limo with enviable balance, raising an eyebrow as he meets Steve’s gaze. “What exactly are we toasting? And also, why?”

“One of you just needs to say something complimentary about the Bachelorette, how much you’re looking forward to meeting Sharon and starting the journey, and the rest of you need to drink to it.” Pepper waves her hand distractedly, sounding way too bored for the ongoing emotional crisis Steve is currently experiencing. “Just speak honestly—focus on your anticipation. How do you feel?”

“I _feel_ like I’m about to vomit all over these leather seats.” The main raises his glass towards Pepper before shaking his long hair out of his face and chugging half of it in a single gulp, which speaks to a level of experience. He emerges with a smug smirk. “To vomit.”

“Hear, hear,” Steve mutters as his stomach does another flip. The man’s eyes flicker over, smiling in a flash of teeth.

“Behave, both of you.” Pepper shoots them both a glare. “I know you’re nervous because it’s the first night of filming, but if you throw up in this rental I _will_ send you the bill. Now, could one of you please—?”

“I’ll do it.” Yet _another_ alarmingly muscled man readjusts himself, sending a bone-chilling glare Steve’s way as he lifts his glass for the third time in the past five seconds. Steve actively feels his hackles rise to face the threat of someone who could crush his skull between his palms like a soda can before he remembers that he is in a limousine on camera on _national fucking television,_ not a back alley in Brooklyn, and he should be at least halfway used to being the largest person in any given room. Clearly, the nerves are doing nothing for his judgement. “Here’s to...” The man pauses before plastering on the most effusive Stepford smile Steve’s ever had the pleasure of witnessing. “...to finally meeting the woman of all of our dreams, and living happily ever after.”

The strange quasi-reverse harem quality of the entire situation, sitting in a car that probably costs like three months of New York rent with five of the most conventionally attractive men he’s ever met on their way to all meet and court a stranger who is supposedly the woman of _‘all_ of their dreams’ _,_ is what makes Steve nearly choke on his next gulp of alcohol on its way down. The man across from him, who is looking more and more like he might be the only other sane person in the car, raises a skeptical eyebrow and shakes his head subtly to himself before draining the rest of his glass with an air of exasperation Steve’s only ever seen on Sam moments before he blows it with his latest blind date, the ‘fuck me up right now, I can’t take any more of this’ drink. Steve tries very hard not to take it as a sign.

“Perfect, okay.” Pepper peers down at the camera before looking upward to shoot them a quick, tired smile. “We might try to get another take before we arrive, but I think that should be good for you guys. Introduce yourselves, try to relax. We’ll be at the mansion soon.”

Oh, of course, because the prospect of meeting the woman who holds...not his heart, not _necessarily_ the next three months of his life...well, shit, Steve’s not entirely sure _what_ Sharon’s officially in charge of, but the prospect of meeting her for the first time after hearing about her for so long freaks him the fuck out regardless, so he settles instead for taking the other part of Pepper’s advice and turning to the man next to him. Whoever he is, he’s polishing off the last of his champagne with a faint air of disdain and radiating an aura that reminds Steve of his high school calculus teacher in the worst way possible. It is most assuredly _not_ helping with the nerves.

“Uh,” he says as he sticks his hand out, because the last time he remembered introducing himself to another human being he’s still _reasonably_ sure they did it this way, “hey, nice to meet you. My name’s Steve.”

Four pairs of eyes immediately zero in on Steve, y’know, he’s the one who dared disturb the total and complete awkward silence permeating the limo. Strict-teacher-man looks over. There’s a distressingly long pause, during which Steve begins to doubt the guy will even acknowledge him and begins actively considering the benefits of just finishing off his glass of champagne and also getting hammered, right here in the car. He’s a lightweight anyway, and if he’s gonna get eliminated night one he’d rather not remember it. Ever.

“...I’m Stephen.”

“Stephen, huh?” And thank _God almighty,_ the man shakes his hand, inclining his head politely. Steve cautiously lets out his breath, smiling in a way that he hopes is friendly and not inherently panicked as he leans back, letting himself relax slowly. “At least you don’t go by Steve too.” And _open mouth, insert foot._ “Not that it’s a bad thing or anything, just—well, you know the show, I’d hate to have to refer to myself as ‘Steve R.’ for the next three months—”

“No, not at all.” The man flicks a piece of invisible lint off his suit—which okay, all the suits in the car are expensive and out of Steve’s budget, his own included, but that suit seems _particularly_ expensive. “In fact, people usually call me Dr. Strange.”

“...Oh.”

And really, what the _fuck_ is he supposed to say to that?

Steve opens his mouth, but his brain chooses that exact moment to forget anything he’s learned of the English language that won’t piss off the very intimidating doctor who is now officially no longer even looking at him. There are _still_ three other people staring at him curiously, probably not actually analyzing this conversation or wondering what he’s going to say next or assessing who’s coming out on top in this back-and-forth, Steve reminds himself, so why does it _feel_ a lot like he’s being sized up?

Probably because they’re all theoretically going to be, in some antiquated sense of the word, ‘competing’ for the same girl. Really, how the _fuck_ did he get here?

“Not bad, Dr. Strange.” The man across from Steve puts his glass aside, shooting him a sympathetic glance even as he turns to face Stephen (Steve still isn’t sure if the man is _actually_ a doctor, but the moment he calls him ‘Dr. Strange’ in his head he’s acknowledging that he has, in fact, willingly submitted himself to a twilight dimension where things like this are the norm). “People usually call _me_ by my childhood nickname, which is why I’m a man nearing my thirties named ‘Bucky.’” He snorts as he leans forward, turning to the man beside him—the intimidating man who Steve can only assume legitimately makes a living building as much muscle as humanly possible, the one who made the toast. “How about you, then? Bucky, Pepper, _Dr. Strange._ I mean, there’s gotta be _someone_ in this car with a normal name, other than Steve here.”

“I control your edit, Barnes.”

“Love ya, Pep.” The man (who Steve, _for the sake of his own sanity,_ needs to not think of as ‘Bucky’) throws a semi-flirtatious wink toward the front of the car before grinning rakishly and turning back to the man beside him. Steve can certainly see how he got on the show, at least. “So, what’s your name?”

“I’m not here to make friends,” the man snaps back. Steve has to bite his tongue very hard to stop himself from snidely pointing out that that’s a long and very unusual name, is it French? “I’m not planning on playing nice or getting to know any of you.”

Barnes (Steve will stay in denial, thank you very much) seems entirely unperturbed by what Steve is beginning to suspect is a car full of paid actors who are seconds away from punking him, instead raising a single skeptical eyebrow as his friendly smile goes razor-sharp. “That a family name or somethin’?”

Steve hides a chuckle in the last of his champagne. Bucky— _Barnes’_ gaze flickers over to him before he rolls his eyes, quick and seemingly for his benefit. Steve feels himself relax against his will as he sits back and tilts the mouth of his now-empty glass toward Bucky, which _ouch,_ the only other halfway normal person in this car is named _Bucky._ He really _is_ on reality television.

“What, no one’s gonna ask me my name?”

“I mean, that’s no one’s fault but your own.” Bucky turns and gestures with his hand toward the last stranger in the car, the man in the back who Steve has been actively avoiding acknowledging, because while he _did_ tell the show psychologist that he wasn’t crazy he’s about ninety percent sure they’ll throw him out if he begins directly interacting with what must be a hallucination of a man dressed _entirely red and black spandex._ “But fine, I’ll bite. Who are you and which bet did you lose to end up in that outfit?”

“Hey, who’s to say this isn’t my way of expressing the man I am inside?” For Christ’s sake, the man’s wearing the mask over his _face._ Steve looks over and immediately regrets it as he stares into the hollow, white mesh where the man’s eyes should be. Is there even a hole for his mouth? How has he been drinking champagne this entire time?!

“Ain’t no shame in it, I’m here because I owe a friend a favor from college.” Bucky shakes his head. “Unless you’re really just wearing full-body spandex for the hell of it, in which case I gotta wonder which nightmare cosplayer’s attic you crawled out of—”

“Actually, t’was a sex dungeon from whence I came. And it was very friendly, let me tell you—learned a lot about myself, changed my life, wanted Sharon to know that side of me right off the bat.” The man in spandex tilts his head, actively ignoring the way both Dr. Strange and the maybe-bodybuilder turn to him so quickly their necks crick. Steve, who has a sense of humor despite what his traitor friends may say, simply sets his empty glass aside and smiles. “Y’know, I think you’d do _very_ well there with a name like ‘Bucky.’”

“Talk to me after I get eliminated.” Bucky smiles. “But seriously—why the hell are you dressed like that?”

“I’m Wade, thanks so much for asking.” Wade, who is officially the only person in the car whose name is the _least_ interesting thing about them, sidles up to maybe-bodybuilder and slings a friendly arm over his shoulder. The man actively flees to the empty seat on Steve’s side, which _ha,_ he is indeed allergic to friendship. “And I’m dressed like this so Sharon remembers me, Bucky, _duh._ We can’t all rely on our interesting names, you know; some of us have to _work_ for this.”

“Remembers you?” Bucky frowns, even as Wade shrugs and scoots over so he can sling his arm around _his_ shoulders instead. “Why the heck would she have trouble remembering you?”

“It’s his gimmick,” Dr. Strange (fucking _Dr. Strange,_ Steve is sitting next to a man who is supposedly just _Dr. Strange_ in his day to day life) shrugs, like he sits next to men in spandex in fancy limousines every other day, which...hell, Steve doesn’t know what rich people do in their free time, far be it from him to judge. ”How he plans to introduce himself to Sharon in a memorable way, so he doesn’t get eliminated today. She’ll be meeting twenty-six new men today, the first impression’s obviously going to be important.”

“What, didn’t Pepper talk to you about it?” Maybe-bodybuilder sneers. “We were _supposed_ to discuss it with our producer.”

“I...” Bucky blinks, then turns quickly over to Pepper, who is currently texting busily away on her cellphone and being disturbingly nonchalant about the amount of testosterone-fueled insanity in the back. “That was _real?!_ I thought you were bullshitting me!”

“What part of ‘I think you should drive up in a motorcycle’ sounds like bullcrap to you?” Pepper looks distinctly unsurprised, flawlessly self-editing herself for PG-13 television without even turning to look at them.

“The part where you want to rent a motorcycle purely so I can drive it for ten seconds up a cobblestone driveway in a tuxedo!”

“No, we _wanted_ to rent a motorcycle so you could tell Sharon your profession when you met her. _You_ laughed it off and said that you were pretty sure you could handle the introductions yourself.” Pepper sticks her tongue out through her teeth, absentmindedly shaking her head and muttering to herself quietly enough that only Steve, who’s closest to her, can hear. “Wouldn’t have hurt the image we want to cultivate for you, either...”

“Shit.” Bucky blinks slowly up at Wade, who’s now absently drumming his fingers on Bucky’s shoulder and whistling ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’—at least, Steve assumes it’s him whistling, because it’s kind of hard to tell with the mask. Having now gone through the audition process, Steve is reasonably sure Wade isn’t insane per se, but he has a pretty good idea who’s gonna get the insanity _edit_ if he keeps this up. “Do _all of you_ have something planned like this? Spandex under your suits or something?”

“No, but I think Pepper’s holding onto a stethoscope for me.” Dr. Strange waves a hand. “I’m a neurosurgeon, mind you, but apparently the heartbeat thing is...cute.” His lip curls on the final word as if it’s blasphemous, which boy, Steve has a few things to tell him about the way this particular television show works.

“I have a lamp in the trunk,” says maybe-bodybuilder.

“A...lamp?” Steve blinks. “Are you a lamp salesman or something?”

“No.”

Steve waits, but maybe-bodybuilder offers no further comment, which...Steve should probably accept as the new standard for normal, at this point. Out of the corner of his eye, he can vaguely see Bucky as he makes a panicked noise and puts his face in his hands. Wade pats him on the shoulder and draws Bucky slowly into a hug, murmuring as if comforting a wounded animal. When he speaks again, it comes out muffled and mortified through his hands.

“Do _all_ of you have something prepared?” He separates his fingers to peer out at Steve with a single eye. “Steve?”

“I...uh...” Steve racks his brain, because given the stupid amount of time he’s spent discussing every freaking eventuality with Pepper he’s sure they must have covered his television debut at _some_ point, but he’s coming up blank. In fact, the more he thinks about it, the more he’s pretty sure the idea of his first filmed interaction hasn’t crossed his mind, which holy Jesus _fuck,_ how has he _not_ thought about how he’s going to look like when he first gets filmed stepping out of the limo? He’s watched this show, for God’s sake, he and Natasha have an intricate eight-category system for rating limo entrances, how has he _not prepared for this?!_ “Pepper? What did we decide for me?”

“I asked you if you had any ideas, you told me you and your friends had spent three years discussing what you’d do for limo entrances if you ever got on the show and you had it all taken care of.” Steve feels four pairs of eyes immediately snap to him again, which way to fucking _call him out,_ Pepper. “I asked if you needed our help, you said no, I asked if you wanted our input, you said no, then you asked me if we were going to be allowed to film you in the bathroom and we never revisited the original topic.”

“...So _do_ you have something planned, Steve?”

Given his track record, Steve’s ninety percent sure that maybe-bodybuilder is just asking to be an asshole about it; he’s itching to prove him wrong, but try as he might he can _not_ seem to remember this particular conversation with Nat and Sam. He’s about to appear on national television without having any idea what to say, attempting to make a good impression on a woman who will be judging him up against twenty-five other eligible men who were handpicked by TV producers nationwide. He glances down just to check that he remembered pants, because this is definitely a nightmare scenario. “...Mother _fu—”_

“Right, so that’s a no.” Bucky swats Wade away and turns to look at Steve with a look Steve is either projecting or recognizing as ‘category ten doomsday panic’. “Just the two of us, then.” He slowly lowers his head, bending over until his forehead is touching his knees. “With nothing to say. About to go on television. _Fuck.”_

“They’re probably not going to air it,” Wade says cheerfully. “They only air the best ones and the worst ones, and you probably won’t be one of the worst ones...well, at least you’re not wearing a banana suit. I’m pretty sure someone a few years back wore a banana suit.”

“At least you’re not wearing _spandex,”_ maybe-bodybuilder mutters.

“Hey, at least he’s got something better than a _lamp,”_ Steve shoots back, because Wade might be crazy but at least he’s been friendly. “Who starts a date with a _lamp?”_

“You did once,” Pepper calls from the front. “On your questionnaire. Worst date. You didn’t have anything to talk about with the woman, so you opened by commenting on the quality of the lighting in the restaurant. Went into an entire artistic analysis for ten minutes. Then the waiter turned out to be her husband.”

“Okay, not something the group needed to know.” Steve grits his teeth, because honestly, he’d kind of forgotten that himself. It’ll be hard to top as far as ‘worst dates’ go, but he’s starting to realize with an increasing sense of horror that ‘made embarrassment of self on national television and then got sent home over literally twenty other men’ may take the cake if things continue down the direction they’re going in. Across from him, Bucky starts rocking back and forth and making a high-pitched whistling noise, which Steve chooses to interpret as a sign that he’s reaching the same conclusions. “Right. Look, no need to panic. We just need to open honestly and be ourselves.”

“Oh, fucking _Jesus,_ no wonder your dates turn out that badly if you’re going in with _honesty.”_ Bucky honest to God _laughs_ at him, which okay, that hurts a little. “I hope your version of ‘yourself’ is a hell of a lot better than mine, because if I was ‘myself’ on every first date I’d never get a second.” He pauses, his laughter fading off into a contemplative frown. “Actually, come to think of it, I don’t get a lot of second dates anyway.”

“I figured, seeing as you’re sitting across from me right now and everything.” Think, _think._ What the heck was his game plan with Sam and Natasha? It clearly didn’t involve any props or anything, if he didn’t ask for anything from Pepper. “Maybe it’s time to switch up the playbook, take my advice for a change?”

“No offense, but I think I’d rather ride up on a motorcycle.” Bucky turns to glance over. “Hey, Pepper, is it too late to go with the motorcycle?”

“Yes.”

 _“Fuck.”_ Bucky blinks hard a few times before looking helplessly over at Steve. “I don’t know about you, but I’m drawing a blank on literally any other defining features about myself right now.”

“Your name is ‘Bucky,’ I’d say that’s a pretty defining feature.”

“Yeah, sure, I’ll open by telling her to call me that, that’ll definitely be a good first impression.”

“At least it’ll make _some_ sort of impression.” Steve tilts his head back until it makes impact with the window. “My name is _Steve,_ for Christ’s sake. Steve.” He closes his eyes and groans, briefly contemplating the stupidity of the whole situation. “Steve _Rogers.”_ Even his _name_ is working against him now.

“That’s rough, buddy.” Bucky scoffs. “I’m pretty sure that’s the name I had on my high school fake, actually. Shit, did I _buy_ my high school fake from you?!”

“I dunno, did you go to high school in Brooklyn Heights?”

“Yes,” says Bucky 100% seriously, sitting up straighter as his eyes widen almost comically. “Yeah, I’m from Brooklyn.”

“Shoot, really?” Steve squints. “I don’t remember ever selling my license to anyone, but maybe my wallet got stolen or something...”

“Not possible, you’re a year younger than him.” Pepper pockets her phone and turns. “And please, stop discussing illegal activity, I’m trying my best here. Now, we’re approaching the mansion, so let’s discuss limo entrances; don’t forget to pause and stand straight for a second when you get out, let the camera get a proper shot in case we air your entrance—oh, but don’t look directly into them, please. As for order...let me think.” She sweeps an eye over the five of them critically; Steve sits up a bit straighter instinctively and tries very hard to fight all his instincts and avoid looking like a human disaster. “...Strange, you go first. Then you, then you, then...Steve, Bucky, I’m assuming you guys want more time?”

“Sweet baby Jesus, please.”

“Right. Then Bucky, you’ll go fourth, and Steve, you’ll be last.”

“God da—” Pepper shoots a look over the lens and Bucky cuts off his sentence with a frustrated sweep of his hand, throwing himself back into his seat and (presumably unintentionally) slamming his head into the window. “Ow! _Fuck.”_

“It defeats the purpose of trying not to swear if you end up swearing anyway.” Pepper sighs. “I’d like to be able to _air_ the footage we get of you, y’know. Please try to tone it down.”

“I’m sure he’ll do his best to censor himself _after_ we’ve both made complete asses of ourselves in front of Sharon.” Steve goes to sweep a hand through his hair before a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Natasha reminds him that there aren’t many things short of breaking both his legs or starting a fistfight with production that could make the situation worse, but screwing up his hair might be one of them. “Screw it, do you think going up shirtless makes enough of a statement?”

“Yeah, if that statement is ‘I’m a fuckboy, date me on pain of death.’” Bucky rubs the back of his head gingerly, letting out a hiss of pain and a few more half-bitten curse words as he actively ignores the increasingly pained looks Pepper gives him. “‘Sides, only one of us can take that strategy or the novelty wears off.”

“Dibs.”

“Shut the fuck up, Wade, your spandex makes more of a statement than your abs ever could.” Bucky pats at his own stomach before looking over at Steve. “Shit, you’d probably rock the shirtless look better than I could. I’ve still got nothing.”

“I...” His mind instantly reminds him of the literal _thousands_ of reasons why that will never happen, ranging from residual low self-esteem from his high school days to the fact that he hasn’t had time to cultivate his tan in upstate New York to what would he even _say_ if he strolled out of the limo with his shirt off, what words even _accompany_ that sort of introduction that could make it at _all_ redeemable. “...I’m _not_ introducing myself to Sharon shirtless.”

“Really?” Bucky raises an eyebrow and waves a hand at him loosely, which what is _that_ supposed to mean? “If I were you I’d take the easy out, but yeah, maybe save that for Plan B.”

“As cathartic as watching you agonize over this decision is, considering I told you both to prepare...”

“Just say ‘I told you so,’ Pepper.” She probably deserves it, at this point.

“I told you so, Pepper.” Pepper rolls her eyes, because dealing with melodramatic D-List celebrities is her day job and she deserves better. “Listen, all of you, we’re about to pull into the driveway. I’m gonna turn on the camera, and I want you all to crowd over to the windows on the left—no, not your left, my left—and talk about how beautiful Sharon looks when you first see her. We usually go audio-only for this stuff and overlay it with shots of the limos pulling up, but it’s still nice to get the footage just in case.”

“Y’know, for a _reality_ TV show you’re making me do a heck of a lot of acting.” Bucky and Wade begin hobbling over to the other side of the limo right as it makes a sharp turn onto a bumpy cobblestone pathway; they collapse on either side of Steve, sandwiching him in uncomfortably as they somehow manage to cram five comparatively stocky men into a seat meant for three. “And I’m okay at it, but I’m not _that_ great of an actor—”

“I’m not asking you to lie or anything, just let down your filter for a few minutes when you get a glimpse of the Bachelorette.” Pepper flaps her hand toward the windows. “I’m sure that can’t be too hard for you, Barnes, seeing as you’ve yet to acquire a filter at all.”

“Geez, right in the ego—”

“Shut up, there she is!”

Steve nearly falls out of his seat as maybe-bodybuilder makes the car _legitimately sway_ with how suddenly he throws himself at the glass, but Wade and Bucky manage to yank him upright in time for him to turn his face to the window—

And _Christ._

Sharon’s standing in front of the fountain of the infamous Bachelor mansion, the mounted lamplights catching the silvery sequins of her dress so her entire silhouette glitters like a disco ball—but it’s not just Sharon, it’s not just the fact that she’s absolutely gorgeous. It’s that—well, it’s the fact that it’s _Sharon Carter,_ that Steve’s seen that face on his television screen for the past three months, that Steve’s seen that house and that archway on his television for the past three _years._ Steve’s seen this person cry and (maybe) fall in love and (kinda) have her heart broken and talk about her struggles adjusting to civilian life and opening up in relationships, and he’s spent the past three months holding off on dating and taking time off work and putting his life on hold just so he gets this chance to meet her, and now he’s going to _get out of this limousine_ and have a _normal, twenty second conversation_ with her that will determine anything from the next twenty seconds of public humiliation and rejection to the next three months (or, y’know, if things end up going _that_ way, the rest of his goddamn life). It’s like meeting a celebrity, except he knows a startling amount of personal details about this celebrity’s life, and what the _fuck,_ what the actual _fuck_ is he doing here?

Steve’s pretty sure the people _around_ him are saying English words, but all his brain can really do as the limo comes to a steady stop right in front of those familiar blonde mermaid curls that he and Natasha and Sam have GIF’d to each other in their text chains for the past three months is remind him that his apartment probably costs an eighth of that freaking diamond dress and that he really, _really_ should’ve spent more money on his suit. And also that he might throw up. Or run away. Or both.

“—fucking sequins do you even need to put on a dress, really?”

“God _damn_ it, Bucky, language!”

“Aw, shit.” Something somewhere beside him shifts, shaking him briefly out of his own mental spiral—Bucky Barnes has literally slapped both his hands over his mouth, elbowing him hard in the ribs in the process. “Sorry! Sorry, Pepper.” His eyes flicker briefly over to Steve; he lowers his fingers and leans over to whisper to him. “Shouldn’t have asked me to let down my filter, then—like, don’t get me wrong, Sharon looks _amazing,_ but I think I’m a little scared to hug her when she’s in a dress that costs more than my life insurance policy.”

“You need to have a life in order to have a life insurance policy.” And Jesus Christ, today is a bad day for Steve to be _unable to communicate properly with strangers,_ considering he’s about to first impression all over America’s most eligible bachelorette on camera or whatever. “Fuck, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded, I just—when I joke around with my friends, we—”

“Nah, nah, no problem.” Bucky claps him comfortingly on the shoulder, smiling reassuringly as he jerks his head toward the window. “Seriously, I think I needed that, snarky asshole is my default mood and I’m used to my friends saying the same shit. Only, maybe—you know how you were talking about being yourself earlier? Maybe don’t be _that_ yourself when you introduce yourself to Sharon.”

“...Jesus.” Jesus fucking _Christ,_ fuck it all. “I don’t think I’ve got anything else to work with, honestly. Just me, my inability to talk like a normal human, and the certainty of my of impending doom.”

“At this point, I’d take the lamp.”

“At this point, I’d take the _full-body spandex—”_ Steve shuts up as the driver opens the door to the limousine; Stephen takes a stethoscope from Pepper, loops it around his neck, and exits smoothly out of the limo. “Look, can you just...strangle me before it’s my turn? I’d owe you one.”

“As much as the rotting corpse of my competitor would make a great ice-breaker, I think Pepper would frown upon it.” Bucky glances over and gives Pepper a thumbs-up as she nods with a half-hearted glare. “Shit. I am _really_ drawing a blank here.” He blinks hard, glancing up at Steve with a look of extreme desperation (although that might just be Steve projecting). “D’ya think we’ve reached a point as a society where cheesy pick-up lines have become cute in an ironic way again?”

“I wasn’t aware we’d _ever_ reached that point as a society, so no wonder you’re still single.” And out goes maybe-bodybuilder. Steve peers out the window as Pepper pops the trunk. “That is...that is definitely a full length floor lamp.”

“What?!” Bucky readjusts himself as he joins Steve; the two of them squint in vain out the tinted glass as Wade readjusts his spandex. “When he mentioned bringing a lamp, I thought he meant a table lamp or something—”

“—so did I!—”

“—I mean, what do you accomplish with a floor lamp that you can’t accomplish with a table lamp?” Bucky leans back from the window, rubbing thoughtfully at his chin. “What do you even _do_ with a lamp? Am I forgetting some lamp-related pick-up line? Hm...”

“Listen, you _gotta_ cool it with the pick-up lines, those aren’t gonna end well for you—”

“It’s _gotta_ be something about turning on. Or being turned on. You know what I mean.”

“—yeah, like I said, not gonna end well.”

“Uh, ‘scuse me?” Wade coughs into his elbow. “Moment of silence for my dramatic exit, please and thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah, knock yourself out.” Bucky rolls his eyes and Steve silently sweeps his hand forward; Wade makes a few rude gestures at Bucky before straight-up _somersaulting_ out of the limo.

“Y’know, I really hope that man isn’t eliminated.”

“Can we focus, maybe, on the fact that I have to leave this limo in the next ten seconds and I have nothing to say and also we’re so _totally fucked?”_ Bucky goes to grab his hair, reconsiders halfway through the motion, and settles for strangling the air in front of him with an increasingly frazzled look in his eyes. Really, Steve’s just thankful he’s not strangling _him,_ because that seems like a proper reaction. “What the _fuck_ do I do?”

“Uh.” Steve goes to turn to Natasha, who is...currently not there, and then goes for his phone to text Sam, who is...also not there. “I’ve had, like, maybe six and a half successful dates in my entire life? Maybe don’t ask me this question?”

“Half.” Bucky laughs semi-hysterically. “How do you have _half_ a successful date.”

“Well, _her_ half thought it was a successful date...” He coughs into his sleeve. “Look, as stupid as it fucking sounds—”

“—don’t you fucking _dare_ say be yourself.”

“I wasn’t _gonna.”_ Total bullshit, that’s definitely what he was gonna say. “Look, you’re charming, kinda.” He rolls his eyes and sighs as Bucky leans back to raise an incredulous eyebrow. “In an asshole-ish way, okay? And I’ve been watching this show for a long time—believe me, not everyone goes in with a weird gimmick. Just act normal and flirt with her the way you’d approach anyone you were planning on dating. You _do_ know how to flirt, right?”

Because _Steve_ sure as heck doesn’t, so ‘being himself’ is the best he’s got.

“I’m pretty sure I knew how to _yesterday,_ at least.” Bucky takes a deep breath, straightening the lapels of his suit with a firm tug and exhaling noisily. He glances over at Pepper, who waves him toward the open door with a nod and a tightly drawn smile. “Shit.”

“For the sake of my own sanity, please don’t open with that.”

“Your wish is my command, Pepper.” Bucky draws himself up and clambers over to the door in a half-crouch, pausing in the doorway and glancing over. “Hey, thanks, Steve.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Steve gives Bucky a thumbs up and a smile he hopes isn’t twitching as much as he feels like it is, given the sudden one-way pit to hell opening up in his gut. “Good luck. I’ll see you inside?”

“Definitely.” Bucky pauses in the doorway. “And hey, don’t worry too much.” He pauses for a second, frowning to himself, before grinning slyly. “If you ask real nicely, I’ll fuck mine up so you look good by comparison.”

“You’re a real asshole, you know that?” Steve ducks his head, giving him a mock salute. Despite himself, the nervous static tingling in all his limbs recedes, just a little. “Go, you jerk.” And he throws it in, because he can’t help it. “And don’t forget to be yourself!”

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W1JBB_LE_CM1.mxf**

_[James Barnes exits the limo, his devilish grin fading into an enigmatic half-smirk; he stands still for a second, weight on one leg. His suit is entirely black, including his tie. He straightens it as he strides toward Sharon; Sharon opens her arms as he approaches. The camera follows his path.]_

“Hey there!”

“Hi.”

_[He hugs her, following her lead; she’s in a mermaid dress dripping with sparkling white sequins, her hair in gentle waves over one shoulder. When he pulls back, he breathes deeply before ducking his head and exhaling on a slightly self-conscious laugh.]_

“You look great!”

_[She laughs too, angling her head toward him and smiling knowingly.]_

“Thanks! You too.” _[Her voice drops conspiratorially.]_ “You feeling nervous?”

 _[He raises his head, eyebrows raising—pleasantly surprised.]_ “Ha! Yeah, yeah.” _[He rallies quickly, tilting toward her himself in a well-practiced motion.]_ “I’ll let you in on, uh, a little secret here.”

“Oh? And what’s that?”

“I didn’t prepare anything.” _[He glances directly into the camera before leaning back again.]_ “Probably shoulda done my homework, huh?”

“You _do_ know my name, at least, don’t you?” _[She smiles good-naturedly.]_

“Sharon, isn’t it?”

“Got it in one!” _[She holds out her hand; they high-five, keeping their hands clasped together briefly as they lower them before pulling away again.]_ “You haven’t told me yours, though.”

“Ah, it’s J—it’s Bucky.”

“Bucky?” _[She pokes at him.]_ “Unusual, isn’t it?”

“James Buchanan Barnes.” _[He takes a step back and gestures to himself.]_ “I’d introduce myself as James, but, uh...well, a friend of mine told me to ‘be myself,’ so I thought I’d give it a shot.” _[He tilts his head.]_ “Good call?”

 _[Sharon chuckles into her hand as the two step back towards each other.]_ “Ha! Yeah. Yeah, I think your friend’s got the right idea.”

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W1SGR_LE_CM1.mxf**

_[Steve Rogers steps out of the limo in a navy blue suit. He pauses uncertainly before shoving his hands in his pockets as he steps toward Sharon, but he barely makes it a few steps before stumbling. Sharon lets out a sympathetic noise as she stretches both hands outward; it’s only by grabbing both her hands in his that he stops himself from falling.]_

“Oh! Geez, are you okay?”

_[Steve shakes his head a few times, glancing nervously at the camera; his breathing comes heavy through the microphone attached to his lapel.]_

“Yeah, ‘m fine. I’m sorry, I—”

“Hey, look, no worries!” _[Sharon nudges at him until he stands straighter, smiling encouragingly as she steps closer to him.]_ “I was so nervous during my introduction, I messed up my own name. It’s Sharon, by the way.” _[She laughs.]_ “In case you didn’t know.”

“Well, before I reach that point...” _[Sharon draws him into a hug; he pauses before pulling back.]_ “...I’m Steve. And thanks for saving me back there.”

“I’m sure you’ll return the favor at some point.” _[There’s a moment of silence as Steve recollects himself; Sharon observes him, a smile on her face.]_ “You feeling better?”

“Definitely.” _[He looks down at their clasped hands.]_ “Looks like my hands are still shaking, though.”

“Oh, look at that, they are.” _[Sharon shakes her head.]_ “Between you and me, I didn’t notice because mine’ve been shaking the whole time.”

“Really? You’re nervous too?”

“Obviously.” _[She gives him a look.]_ “I mean, _I’m_ trying to make a good impression just as much as you guys are. I’ve only gotta impress, what, twenty-six of you?” _[She leans over, letting her hair briefly cover her face as she laughs.]_ “Geez, saying it out loud makes it worse.”

 _[Steve smiles; it’s much more relaxed now.]_ “Well, if it makes you feel any better, you’re doing a great job. From what I’ve seen, anyway.”

“Oh, thank God.” _[She grins at him.]_ “Well, I think I’ve got a few more of these left. I’ll see you inside?”

“I’m looking forward to it.” _[Steve lets go of her hand before hesitating.]_ “So...so I just go through—”

“Through that archway, there.”

“Right. Right, I knew that. I’ve watched this show.” _[Steve straightens his lapels, taking a deep breath and adjusting his posture with a serious face.]_ “Into the lion’s den, then...”

“Good luck!”

_[Sharon watches him leave with a smile, before turning. She tosses her hair over her shoulder so her face can be seen more clearly by the camera as she looks toward a point down the driveway again. She tilts her head, angling her mouth further toward the microphone to make sure it picks her up.]_

“He’s cute. I like him.”

* * *

“It’s funny she brought up her limo entrance with you, because that’s what I ended up using for _my_ entrance.” The man across from Steve leans forward eagerly—he’d been the third person to walk in after Steve himself. “I introduced myself as ‘Snot,’ and then I pretended like nothing was wrong and changed the subject every time she started asking me if that was _actually_ my name.” He leans backward, a lopsided grin on his face; the goofiness of it all makes him the least intimidating person in a room of what, dear God, _has_ to be twenty-six men by now. If one more conventionally attractive bachelor waltzes through that door to compete against Steve, he’s not above drowning himself in the pool out back. At least ‘Snot’ is friendly, approachable, and has a passable (if not juvenile) sense of humor. “And then I pretended I was about to come in, and _then_ I turned and told her that my name was Scott.” He looks pleased with himself as he leans back comfortably, stretching an arm over the back of the sofa. “We laughed about it, so I think it went over well.”

“Sounds like ‘being yourself’ paid off,” Bucky comments to the newly topped-off glass of champagne on the table in front of him with a smile. “Not too bad, either of you. Not bad at all.” He twirls his finger in a circle. “Doesn’t sound like any of us are gonna be the gag reel, so that’s something.”

“At the very least, we’re fortunate we didn’t come in with a cardboard cutout of the previous _Bachelor.”_ The man sitting beside Steve is probably the most muscled dude in the entire house—he looks like he could take all five men from Steve’s limo at _once_ in the most terrifying way possible, and Steve had nearly bolted when he realized moments after taking a seat and calming the residual butterflies in his stomach that he had accidentally put himself right beside a man with the approximate size and shape of an _actual God._ “I might be wrong, but I don’t think anyone enjoys beginning a relationship by having their previous partner paraded in front of them.”

“Yeah, ‘cause when you’re meeting a girl, it’s always best to bring up her ex.” Bucky rolls his eyes and jerks a thumb in the general direction of said cardboard cutout, where it sits forlornly in the corner of the room. “How about you...uh...sorry, did you mention your name? How did your limo entrance go?”

“I am Thor,” says Thor, the man who looks like a Norse God and talks like a Norse God and is, hopefully, not actually a Norse God. Steve looks over to Bucky with just a hint of a raised eyebrow; Bucky returns the look, his lips quirking upward briefly. “The producers thought it might be entertaining if I came in with my brother—he’ll be competing alongside us—and had some fun with our names.”

“And he is…?”

“Loki.” Thor’s grin is blinding and, more surprisingly, 100% genuine—if nothing else, he’ll do well with all the bold declarations in this particular genre of television. “I found the entire situation rather amusing, and I think Sharon did, too.”

“Hold up.” Scott wheezes. “Your name is Thor. And your brother…?”

Thor points at a man who’s sitting on another set of couches on the opposite side of the room; even from where Steve’s sitting, he can see the crease between his brows as he sniffs disdainfully at whatever dark liquor’s in his cup. When he sees Thor pointing, his mild distaste darkens into a full-out glower. “That’s Loki.”

“Holy shit, can your parents predict the future or something?” Not that Bucky’s really one to talk, Steve thinks to himself, not with a name like _James Buchanan,_ but it is a little extreme of a coincidence. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, my parents were history nuts—y’know, what with my unfortunate name and all—but they pegged you two _right on.”_

“Well, now we _gotta_ hear the story behind your limo entrance.” Steve waves him on. “We’re all sharing, aren’t we—”

“You.”

The four men look up as a blonde woman dressed entirely in black cuts in, wielding a glass of champagne like a deadly weapon and sporting the telltale Bluetooth headset indicative of a high-level producer. “You. You’re Steve Rogers, right?”

There is a part of Steve—the fight-or-flight-or-be-an-asshole part of him—that _desperately_ wants to say no. The struggle must be apparent on his face, because Bucky and Scott simultaneously cough into their alcohol. “...Yeah, that’s—”

“Here.” She shoves the champagne into his hand, and it’s by the grace of fucking _God almighty_ that he doesn’t spill it all over himself. That’s the second time today, for Pete’s sake.

“Uh, thanks, but...I wasn’t planning on drinking tonight?”

“Not for you.” She doesn’t roll her eyes, per se, but Steve can practically hear her internal monologue despairing over him. “For Sharon. Entrances are done, but she’s filming a few ITMs; just give her the glass when she comes in to greet you guys.”

“I...uh...”

“If you’re uncomfortable with it,” cuts in Scott, “one of us could do it instead—”

“Nope, gotta be Rogers.” The blonde turns her cutting gaze onto Scott, and he falls immediately silent. “Stop holding it like that, it’s not gonna bite you. Just pass it to her when she comes through the archway and she’ll toast with it. You might even be able to use it to steal her for some one-on-one time.” She pauses, nudging the earpiece further into place with a single manicured finger. “Yeah, okay. You’ve got it.” Her gaze snaps back to Steve even as she begins walking purposefully away. “Don’t forget!”

Yeah, like Steve’s gonna be able to _forget._ He debates putting down the glass on the table before deciding against it, holding the champagne awkwardly in his sweaty palms. “‘Steal’ Sharon?”

“Dude, you’ve seen the show, right?” Scott shakes his head. “It’s the first night, there’s an abundance of men, and at least five of us are getting the axe before the daybreak. We’ve all gotta fight to make an impression on her.”

“I mean...” Steve’s _seen_ the show, obviously, and he’s seen particularly proactive contestants talk about ‘stealing’ time and spiriting the lead away for some private conversation. He’d just assumed he wouldn’t have to resort to that—he’d prefer not to be confrontational without cause. “It’s not _that_ bad, is it? It’s not like, I don’t know—it’s not like the contestants are all _Hunger Games_ -ing each other every season or anything. Some people don’t push it.”

“Yeah, and those are the people who stress out about not having time during the rose ceremony.” Scott looks at him sympathetically. “You just got handed a free pass for week two, buddy. Make sure you play your cards right.”

“Hold up, hold up.” Bucky sits forward. “Can we go back to the ‘Hunger Games’ thing, because I think I missed that part of the contract. Did you say ‘fighting for time?’” He blinks. “Don’t we all get, like, allotted time slots or something? Isn’t there a sign-up sheet? Some organizational system for all of this?”

“You poor, naive child.” Scott smiles with as many teeth as he can, although the effect is significantly undercut by the giggles he keeps lapsing into. “What did you think this was, a friendly reality dating show? This is  _The Bachelorette.”_

“No order. Only anarchy.”

“I don’t wanna hear it, Rogers, you were just as clueless two seconds ago—”

“—lulling you all into a false sense of security, that was my master plan—”

“—and besides, I’m pretty sure I could take you with my hands tied behind my back—”

“Look.” Thor holds out a hand, effectively stopping the conversation. “Sharon’s coming.”

All twenty-six of the men (and yep, definitely twenty-six, Steve’s been counting) simultaneously jump to their feet as Sharon comes through the archway, crowding around the couch area closest to her; Thor nudges Steve, and he nearly stumbles over himself _(fucking again)_ as he races to hand her the champagne. She takes the glass with a smile and a murmur of thanks, and Steve again has to pinch himself to make sure he’s actually standing in front of _Sharon Carter_ on the set of the _fucking Bachelorette_ and shit, yeah, she’s making a toast, raising her glass as she says words, and Steve suddenly realizes that he was not planning on drinking and, y’know, _doesn’t have a glass,_ because the universe hates him and he’s a disaster.

Bucky surreptitiously leans over and places one of the glass candleholders from the coffee table into his awkwardly outstretched hand, the _asshole._

“I just want to thank you all for being here with me today,” Sharon says, smiling widely. Steve’s arms ache as he surreptitiously looks around, trying not to lift his not-glass too high and draw attention to it. He can _see_ the cameraman squatting by the wall, and he has to physically force himself to keep his gaze fixed firmly on Sharon. “I’ve had a lot of ups and downs in the past year; I’ve fallen in love and struggled to open my heart to the right person, only to have it broken.” Her expression drops on cue, her gaze shifting before brightening up again. “But I’ve decided I can’t hide anymore—I really have to open myself up to the possibility of love. So here’s to whatever happens next on this crazy journey!”

Steve lifts his hand on cue, cheering politely alongside the rest of the other men, and the cup’s already halfway to his mouth before he remembers that it’s not actually a cup at all. Bucky and Scott are both side-eyeing him knowingly as they drink from their glasses, because they _can,_ those motheruckers; Steve tips his head forward instead, dipping his nose into the candleholder before hastily setting it back down on the table as quietly as possible.

“So, with that in mind...Steve, why don’t we have a little chat?”

Steve feels distinctly like he’s having an out-of-body experience as Sharon steps forward, offering him her free hand encouragingly; it’s only the sharp pain of an elbow digging into his back that spurs him properly into action. He takes her hand and wills the muscles in his face to please, for the love of God, pull themselves into a smile that _doesn’t_ make him look like a serial killer. His eyes nearly look over as the cameraman by the archway shifts to get a better angle before he purposely remembers not to. “Yeah, of course.” He manages to muster up what he’s relatively certain is a hopefully easy smile. “You got a place in mind?”

“Right this way.” She gives his hand a squeeze, which really only serves to remind Steve how stupidly sweaty his palms are, and glances over his shoulder. “I’ll be back!”

Steve looks back also, which he immediately realizes is the wrong move, because wow, he is getting an awful lot of murder glares from an awful lot of people as they disperse into groups to shit-talk him, probably. Scott gives him a thumbs up, Bucky smiles encouragingly, and Thor lifts his glass briefly to him. All three of them are giving him far too much credit, really, because he’s suddenly extremely aware that, as long as the cameras are rolling, every single thing that comes out of his mouth has the opportunity of permanently and irrevocably ending his love life and who the _fuck_ told him this was a good idea?

“You’re still shaking,” Sharon observes as she draws him further into the mansion. Steve resolutely resists the urge to look behind him at the rustling that is no doubt more cameras, instead fighting through the panic-induced haze surrounding him and taking in his surroundings properly for the first time. The mansion’s set almost entirely in warm tones, beige and worn gold muted in dim lamplight—the balmy atmosphere of Malibu in March settles thick on his clothing, a stark contrast to the lingering winter of Brooklyn. No wonder everything feels a little like an out of body experience; reeling from the pressure and dressed to the nines, hand-in-hand with a woman straight from his TV screen, it’s hard for him _not_ to feel like he’s been placed in a fairytale universe. The sort where one wrong move could end up nationally televised and held over his head for the rest of his natural-born days via the power of social media, granted, but a fairytale nevertheless.

“Well, I’m still nervous.” Steve takes a deep breath and tries to stop the nervous ticking of his mouth, fully aware that if he doesn’t calm down and get his shit together soon, he could be getting a one-way ticket home.

“I’m not _that_ intimidating, am I?” Sharon laughs—it’s one of those short, perfunctory giggles—and perches herself in front of a fireplace facing outward toward a wall of neatly manicured bushes. There’s a camera already set up there toward them, accompanied by someone dressed entirely in black. “C’mon, tell me a little about yourself. I promise I don’t bite.”

Thankfully, Steve remembers preparing what to say and do for _this_ conversation—it’s a little kitschy, sure, but Pepper had promised him it’d air well and spin him in a positive light. Besides, he probably has to make up for the total lack of preparation with his limo entrance. “Well, first things first...I own an art gallery in Brooklyn.” Against his will, his hand goes up to rub subconsciously at the back of his neck. “Geez, I kinda feel like I’m just redoing my audition video here...”

“No, no, this is good!” Sharon smiles, holding out her hands for him again; he grins, shaking his head as he surreptitiously wipes his hands on his pant legs on the side away from the camera before taking them. Is this their thing now? “I don’t know anything about you yet, so it’ll be good for me to start from scratch. You’re an artist?”

“The non-starving kind, thankfully.”

“I’ll say.” She puts a hand on his forearm, tapping at the suit material. Steve has had enough experience to be 90% sure that this is what flirting is, probably. “So, what kind of art do you do? Think you can draw me something?”

And thank God, she hands him an opening. “Yeah, of course I can. I’d love to sketch you, actually—just something quick for you to remember me by. You look gorgeous tonight, by the way; I’m sorry I forgot to tell you earlier.” He reaches into his inside suit pocket, extracting a pencil and a single post-it. “It’s gonna take me a little time, though, so fingers crossed no one steals you away in the next ten minutes.” He pauses as he leans back a little, angling his paper in his hand and clamping his tongue between his teeth; Sharon immediately sits upright, a knowing smile flashing across her face as she clasps her hands. “Hopefully I didn’t jinx it there...”

“Don’t worry about it, I bet they’ll know better than to disturb an artist at work.” Sharon bites down on her lip, stifling a giggle. “Shoot, I guess I probably shouldn’t talk while you’re drawing me, huh?”

“Actually, I’m banking on it. I was hoping I could learn a bit more about you—you can, uh, learn a lot about a person by drawing them.” Despite the uncomfortably cliché words on his tongue, the familiar motions of pencil on paper help bring Steve back a little, and he can actively feel his breathing slow and calm. For a second, it actually feels natural; he gets down a few lines to follow the general shape of Sharon, perched as she is on the fireplaces’ hearth, and begins filling in the features of her face. “Like, what do you think makes for a good relationship?”

“Yeah, it’s definitely important we agree on that sort of thing.” She purses her lips a little, staring into the shrubbery for a second. The person crouched with the camera shifts uncomfortably. “For me, I think the most important part of a relationship is trusting the other person to have your back, no matter what. I think loyalty is very—very important.” Her hands twitch, as if wanting to move them to emphasize the point.

“I think so, too.” Steve pauses from where he’s scribbling in the glittery angles of her bedazzled dress, lowering the paper to meet her eyes. “Knowing that someone will be with you, in spirit if not in person, no matter what happens.”

“Exactly!” Sharon nods fiercely. “Like, this show’s a great place to find love, obviously.” She tilts her head away from the camera, eyes rolling half-heartedly even as she says the words. “But it’s what happens after that matters, y’know? The relationship has to last into the real world, so you need to know that your partner’s gonna stick by you. That’s the sort of person I’m hoping to find here.”

“‘A man for all seasons,’ as it were?” Fuck, when will his mouth learn to check in with his brain before it _blurts things out like an idiot?_ “...That was terrible. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Sharon hunches over on a laugh, coughing into her hand as she turns to Steve, eyes alight with mirth. “But yes, essentially, that.”

“Well, hopefully I can be that person for you.” He can feel himself cringing internally as he says it, but at least that won’t be the worst thing Sharon hears from the men today, if what he’s seen on TV before is any indication. Hell, it’s not even the stupidest thing _Steve’s_ said all day.

“Yeah, me too. It goes both ways, after all.” She settles back into her pose, holding still. “So, how does a stand-up guy like you end up on the Bachelorette, anyway? You’ve gotta have a few long-term relationships under your belt.”

“Funny story, that.” Steve twists the pencil between his fingers nervously as he very purposely looks at a spot over Sharon’s ear, because he’s pretty sure if he makes eye contact with either her or the camera he’ll combust from embarrassment. “See, I’ve actually never been too good with—”

“Hey there.”

The sound of Bucky’s voice startles Steve badly enough that he drops the pencil—you know, like a _human disaster—_ and nearly falls off the concrete ledge as he twists his body the wrong way around on his first try. Bucky’s leaning against the archway to their little patio area, swirling a cup loosely in his right hand and grinning lazily as he raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, is something wrong?”

“Nah, just wondering if I could steal Sharon away for a second.” Bucky pushes himself upright again with a sigh, walking over until he’s hovering right over Steve’s shoulder. “D’ya mind?”

Steve has to blink for a second just to make sure this is the same man who was incredulously questioning the lack of organization and joking with Steve about entire concept of fighting for the Bachelorette’s time. His mouth, which just keeps ignoring his brain today, gets the words out before he can think over how it’ll look on camera. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Not really, no.” Bucky raises a cool eyebrow as he glances over Steve’s head at Sharon, radiating casual nonchalance. “So, do you?”

The question he’s really asking, of course, is whether or not Steve is prepared to _verbalize_ the fact that he minds on camera when Night One etiquette dictates that he graciously hand over his time to other suitors. Steve glances over at Sharon, who’s watching the entire exchange with a carefully neutral expression, before his eyes flicker unwittingly over to the camera half-hidden in the bushes. There’s a side of him that really, _really_ wants to stand his ground and say yes.

“Uh, no. Of course not, man.” Steve stands, clapping Bucky once firmly on the back before turning back to Sharon. The weird out-of-body feeling is back with a vengeance, although it’s starting to feel rather uncomfortably like the numbness he associates with helpless fury. “I’ll. I’ll, uh...talk to you later?” The post-it note is sticking haphazardly to the mantle; Steve picks it up and holds it out awkwardly for a second, before realizing how weirdly distant he’s being and instead leaning forward to press the note into Sharon’s hands. “For now, you should hold onto this. I’ll be back to finish it up, okay?”

“Yeah, of course.” Sharon stands too, folding the paper neatly into quarters and clenching it in her palm as she leans in for a hug. Steve realizes, a little too late and semi-hysterically, that her fancy life-insurance dress does not in fact have any pockets. “It was nice meeting you, Steve.”

“Nice to meet you, too.” He winces as he hears the words come out of his mouth, hand thumping her stiffly between the shoulder blades twice as the jewels on her dress dig into his arms. “Don’t forget about me.”

Yes, because _that’s_ a normal thing normal people say to each other in day-to-day conversation. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve sees Bucky’s eyes widen in what looks to be mild judgement before he turns politely away with a swig of his drink.

“I’ll be sure not to.” Sharon pulls away, her hair sticking briefly to the sweat on his cheek before she takes a step back, taking the arm Bucky offers her. “So, where are you taking me?”

“Right this way.” Bucky smiles, smug and relaxed with the charm cranked up to eleven as he strolls away. Steve stands for a few seconds more, trying to process what the _fuck_ just happened, before he realizes that the camera is still angled at him.

“It wasn’t that bad, was it?” He asks, painfully aware of the desperation in his own voice.

“I’m really not supposed to talk to you.” The cameraman looks Steve up and down from where he’s been silently judging him, probably, the entire time. “You should head back to the group.”

“...Yeah, sure.” Steve feels himself walking away on autopilot as his brain struggles to process the situation—Sharon had pulled him away, they’d talked for what must’ve been a few minutes at most, and then Bucky Barnes from the limo had waltzed in and cut short what was, presumably, the only interaction Steve would have with Sharon before she decided whether or not to give him the boot. The entire thing is still cast in an adrenaline-fueled fog. Steve’s not entirely convinced he didn’t just _dream_ it all, given how passive of a part he feels like he’s played through the entire night.

“You okay, Steve?”

He blinks rapidly, making sense of his surroundings—he’s back in the main room of the Bachelor mansion, hovering awkwardly around an assembled group of eight guys. Scott’s peering up at him anxiously, still patting at the empty seat by his side; Steve sinks into it slowly, his knees trembling.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Steve blinks, taking a quick look around. On the other side of the room, another group of guys is conversing on another semicircle of couches. Cameras lurk in every corner, capturing every angle; a producer darts across the room, sparing him a glance. “I think so, anyway.”

Thor pats his arm. “And how was your conversation with Sharon? What happened?” He tilts his head almost apologetically towards the camera pointed at them, silently awaiting his answer.

“Um.” And really, that’s the million dollar question. Steve shakes his head a few times, blinking hard. “I think...” Fuck it, he really, _really_ needs alcohol. “I think I just got Hunger Games’d?”

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W1_MR_C9_MC3.mxf**

_[As Sharon leads Steve away, the men begin to disperse back into their groups. A man with his hair cut short on the sides and piled high on top pauses in his conversation to lean over, interrupting Bucky from where he’s conversing with Scott and Thor.]_

“Hey, were you talking to that guy Sharon pulled away? Who is he, anyway?”

_[Bucky frowns.]_

“His name’s Steve. Why do you ask?”

“I mean, why him, right?” _[The stranger rolls his eyes and crosses his arms.]_ “He’s been uncomfortable all night. I didn’t peg Sharon to be into that kind of guy. No confidence, y’know?”

“Buddy, if you’re not feeling nervous at _all,_ that’s not confidence.” _[Bucky shakes his head.]_ “That’s arrogance and stupidity, assuming you’re a better fit than all twenty-five of the other men here. Clearly you haven’t got her pegged as well as you thought, anyway, considering she’s with Steve right now and not you.”

_[The stranger rolls his eyes and turns back to his original group; Bucky returns his attention to the ongoing conversation between Scott and Thor.]_

“He looked a little like he was gonna throw up, honestly.”

“I have faith in him. I’m sure he’ll be able to keep it together.”

“Who, Steve?” _[Bucky smiles into his cup.]_ “That’s ‘cause you two didn’t see him panicking in the limo.”

“Weren’t you panicking just as badly?”

“...Maybe.” _[Bucky glares halfheartedly at Scott as he snickers.]_ “But look, I’m pretty sure—”

_[He cuts off abruptly as Pepper approaches the three of them, an intensely focused expression on her face.]_

“Scott, Thor, do you two mind heading over into the other room?” _[She gestures to a point somewhere behind her.]_ “There should be a few seats free by the potted plants. You two can just chit-chat with the other guys, follow the flow of their conversation.” _[She turns to Bucky.]_ ”I wanna talk to you for a second.”

_[Scott and Thor exchange looks.]_

“And so it begins.”

“Bye, Bucky.”

_[The two of them speed-walk away. Bucky waves them away before turning back to his producer.]_

“So what’s up?”

“I overheard your conversation with the other men.” _[Her mouth twists into a frown as she crosses her arms, tapping her finger on her arm thoughtfully.]_ “I should’ve discussed this with you earlier, but I just wanted to let you know—they’re right about how tight time gets on Night One. Between the lead having ITMs and getting called aside to chat with producers it can get hard to find pockets of downtime. As a general unspoken rule, she doesn’t roam freely—the contestants go to her.”

“O...kay?” _[Bucky eyes her warily.]_ “Thanks for the heads up.”

“I’m not kidding.” _[She meets his gaze dead-on, serious as a heart attack.]_ “Last year, we had thirty-one contestants night one. People were cutting in on other people’s conversations before they had time to do little more than introduce themselves. I think at one point, there was a queue of five men hovering by a doorway waiting for her to finish a conversation. Even then, at least three people didn’t get the chance to talk to her.”

“Sounds intense.” _[Bucky takes a drink, looking for the most part unperturbed.]_

“The point being, it’s best to get your time in and make an impression early, before people start getting panicked and jamming things up.” _[She makes a vague motion with her hands.]_ “As your producer, I think it might be safest for you to go ahead and do it now. You know how it is—it’s easier to remember the people you meet at the beginning and at the end. And as a contestant, you have no idea when your time will end and the rose ceremony will begin.”

 _[Bucky smiles at that.]_ _“You_ know, though. Couldn’t you just tell me?”

 _[Pepper smiles, amused.]_ “Sadly, no.” _[Quick as a flash, she’s professional again.]_ “I think you should wait a few minutes, then go find Sharon and ask to spend some time with her. Get it out of the way so you don’t have to worry about it, you know?”

 _[Bucky hesitates, brow furrowing.]_ “...I don’t really want to cut into Steve’s time. It seems unnecessary.”

“Between you and me, he’ll be lucky if he gets three minutes uninterrupted anyway. _Any_ of you will.” _[Pepper shrugs.]_ “Better you than someone else, right?”

 _[Bucky glances back over to the stranger from before, who’s know a good distance away; the man’s talking to his own producer, the blonde woman from before.]_ “...Yeah, I guess you’re right.” _[He turns back to Pepper, frowning.]_ “So I just wait a few minutes, then…?”

“Head over to where Sharon and Steve were going—the side patio, I think.” _[Pepper steps closer, pointing Bucky toward the aforementioned direction.]_ “Just ask politely and lead her somewhere else. Steve will let you do it—it’s kind of an unspoken rule around here. He’ll understand.” _[She bites her lip.]_ “Between you and me, I just don’t want to see any of my contestants sent home night one. After all the months of auditioning, all the money on preparation...well. I don’t like seeing grown men cry.” _[She rolls her eyes.]_ “Besides, for all the shit you give me, you’re an okay guy, Barnes.”

“Jesus, Pepper, watch your language!” _[Bucky grins, putting a hand over his heart.]_ “Alright, alright, I hear ya. I’ll give Steve a few more minutes to wrap it up, then head on over.” _[He squints at his glass.]_ “In the meantime, I think I’ll get myself a refill. Christ, I haven’t been this nervous since...well. I don’t think I’ve _ever_ been this nervous approaching a girl.” _[He lifts his glass at Pepper, shaking it to prove his point as he begins walking away.]_ “Thanks!”

_[Pepper watches him go, her warm smile sliding off her face. The blonde producer glances over, says something to her contestant, and makes her way over.]_

“So?”

_[Pepper turns to her with a mild frown.]_

“Yeah, he’ll go in a few minutes.”

“Excellent.” _[The blonde producer jerks her thumb at the man she was talking to.]_ “I think I timed it well enough that Brock’ll try to cut Bucky off.” _[She smiles grimly.]_ “Good eye. I didn’t notice their disagreement at all.”

“Well, spend a few more years here and you’ll get good at picking out the drama.” _[Pepper’s still frowning after Bucky.]_ “It doesn’t get any easier, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, Christine.” _[She blinks hard, turning back to her companion.]_ “Don’t you get tired of playing puppet master? Bucky and Steve were getting along in the limo, you know.” _[She sighs tiredly.]_ “I just don’t feel good about ruining friendships, is all.”

“We went over this already.” _[Christine rolls her eyes.]_ “The whole point of putting them in the same limo in the first place—hell, the whole reason you’re the producer for _both_ of them. The bad boy with the motorbike versus the all-American artist. If they both end up going as far as we think they will, the audience’ll eat it up.” _[She crosses her arms.]_ “They’re even both from Brooklyn. Can you _imagine?_ Hometown dates in the _same hometown?”_

“Putting the cart before the horse there a little, aren’t we?” _[Pepper raises an eyebrow.]_ “Bold of you to assume they’ll both make it to final four.”

“We both know they’re serious candidates.” _[Christine shakes her head, frowning; Pepper’s still distracted, drumming her fingers restlessly against her arm and looking guilty.]_ “Don’t feel too bad about it, yeah? They just met each other, after all. You know how quickly dynamics change in an environment like this—no guarantee they would’ve been friends the entire time anyway.”

“Yeah, I guess.” _[Pepper takes a deep breath, collecting herself.]_ “How’re we doing with the shot list?”

“The men in the other room should be talking about Sharon and how much of a catch she is. I’ve got two men—one of mine and one of Maria’s—queued for ITMs about the pressure of the competition.” _[Christine jerks her head in silent question; Pepper nods, and the two of them begin to walk away.]_ “Now, I’ve got camera three following someone who looks like they might be tonight’s token drunk...”

* * *

**ITM: Steve Rogers**

_[Steve is juxtaposed against a blurry backdrop of muted lamps and warm tones. His torso is in frame, and he’s talking directly at the camera. Across the bottom of the screen, a label flashes: ‘Steve, 29; Artist; Brooklyn, NY’. He looks distinctly troubled. Pepper’s voice can be heard faintly from somewhere off-screen.]_

_“Were you expecting things to be competitive this early on?”_

_[Steve shakes his head vehemently, his eyebrows drawing together as a scowl briefly overtakes his features.]_

“Of course not. I—”

_“Remember the format.”_

_[He sighs, starting over.]_

“I was _not_ expecting things to be competitive this early on.” _[His voice rings clearly, disapproving and frustrated.]_ “People cutting each other off, fighting for time—I mean, I know we’re all competing for Sharon’s attention, but it is _intense_ out there.” _[His expression eases minutely.]_ “I’m glad I got the chance to talk to her, though—I hope she felt the same understanding with me that I felt with her. Next time, I’ll make sure I get to properly connect with her.”

_“If there is a next time.”_

_[Steve looks ahead—determined, almost mildly offended at the suggestion.]_

“There will be.”

* * *

**ITM: Jack Rollins**

_[A man with neat, slicked-back hair sits in front of the same backdrop with a sour expression on his face. The label in the corner reads: ‘Jack, 32; Police Officer; Houghton, MI’.]_

_“Are you willing to fight for your time here?”_

“I’m definitely willing to fight for my time here. I came into this competition knowing I’m the right man for Sharon. It’s about me and her. Everyone else is irrelevant.” _[He waves a hand flippantly.]_ “Window dressing. What they do doesn’t bother me in the slightest.”

* * *

**ITM: Cameron Klein**

_[A man with curly hair, a neutral expression, and a bow tie. His label reads: ‘Cameron K., 30; Tech Specialist; Buffalo Grove, IL’. He fidgets, less from nerves and more from discomfort.]_

“It’s pretty early in the night, but you can already tell some people are getting nervous. There are people lashing out, panicking, getting drunk...the list goes on and on.” _[He shrugs.]_

_“But not you?”_

“I mean, I don’t know anyone who _wouldn’t_ be nervous in this situation.” _[Cameron closes his eyes briefly, leaning back and sagging slightly.]_ “We’ve all spent a lot of time and money to get here, and I think for a lot of us it’s just sinking in that all that work could be for nothing if we don’t find a way to make ourselves memorable before the rose ceremony starts. And we have no idea when it happens. For all I know, it could be happening right now.” _[He shakes his head.]_ “And then once you _get_ that time with her...I mean, what do you say to her? You have to find a way to let her know about you, do your best to come across genuine and make an impression, without making her think you’re being too egotistical. It’s a tough balance to make. No _wonder_ people are stressed out.” _[He readjusts himself, folding his hands together and pressing them thoughtfully to his lips as he sits forward.]_ “It’s just a matter of handling your stress in a constructive way.”

* * *

**ITM: Brock Rumlow**

_[The same stranger from before, with hair faded on the sides and piled high on top. He’s sporting an expression of poorly concealed anger, arms crossed tightly. The label reads: ‘Brock, 31; Personal Trainer; Atlantic City, NJ .’]_

“Well, _obviously_ I don’t like him.”

_“Don’t like who?”_

“Steve. I don’t like Steve.” _[Brock’s scowl deepens.]_ “I wanted to be polite, so I was gonna wait until the toast was over. But then _Sharon_ made the first move?” _[He scoffs.]_ “Is the girl even _allowed_ to do that?”

_“Brock—”_

“Yeah, yeah, that was a joke.” _[He rolls his eyes.]_ “Look, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again—that guy was practically tripping over himself the entire time. No confidence whatsoever. He looks the part, maybe, but Jesus—at a certain point you gotta ask yourself. What the hell does Sharon see in a loser like that?”

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W1_SR_C29_QS.mxf**

_[A group of about nine men are sitting on a set of couches placed in U-shaped formation. Almost everyone is dressed in formal suits and ties, although one men is dressed inexplicably in a penguin costume with his head on the floor by his feet.]_

“Who was it that just dove into the pool?”

“Wait, someone dove into the pool?”

“The guy who pulled up with the megaphone. He belly-flopped in, suit and everything. Sharon wasn’t even there.” _[The man shakes his head.]_ “Well, at least they’re weeding themselves out, right?”

“Damn.” _[Another man puts down his drink.]_ “Just goes to show you, you gotta watch yourself around here.”

“The smallest thing could send you home.” _[He sits forward, resting his elbows on his knees.]_ “Say, how many of you have talked to Sharon?”

“I have!”

“I haven’t yet...actually, excuse me for a second.”

“I have.”

 _[A few men raise their hands; the asker does a headcount.]_ “So that’s what, a third of us? Does anyone know how much time we have left?”

“I don’t even know what time it is. I swear to God there aren’t any clocks in the house—”

“There’s one over the stove in the kitchen. It’s been a few hours by now.”

“Fuck.” _[The man immediately glances toward the camera.]_ “I mean—shit, uh, I’m—”

 _[Someone, presumably the cameraman, speaks up from directly by the camera. His voice is distinctly amused.]_ “Nah, it’s okay. We’ll cut it out.”

“Right, thanks.” _[He turns back.]_ “We’ve gotta start speeding it up, then, if—”

_[Everyone abruptly falls silent as a familiar face walks in—Tony Stark, the host of the Bachelor franchise, sporting a smirk and a three-piece suit. In his hands, he carries a small tray with a single rosebud. He nods at the men as he comes to a stop in front of them, clearly savoring the moment.]_

“Fellas.”

_[No one dares reply; when he puts the tray on the coffee table, you can hear the metallic clink against wood. Tony grins widely as he straightens, tugs firmly on the lapels of his suit, and strides out of the room equally suddenly.]_

“...Well, fuck.”

* * *

**ITM: Scott Lang**

_[Scott sits in front of the camera, hands moving as he talks energetically, halfway through a conversation. The label across the bottom of the screen reads: ‘Scott, 27; Computer Scientist; Coral Gables, FL’.]_

“See, here’s the thing. A lot of us out there are used to being the most eligible bachelor in any given room, right?” _[He’s leaning forward on his chair, animated.]_ “So we’re not used to this much competition and rejection; for a lot of the men, it’s the first time they’ve had to actively fight to be noticed by someone against equally if not _more_ viable bachelors. There are definitely some people out there who you can tell are feeling threatened by the competition. Honestly? It’s all a little intimidating.” _[He leans back again, satisfied with his explanation.]_ “I haven’t really—I mean, I’ve honestly been scared to cut into anyone’s time, which I _know_ is gonna end badly for me, but you would too if you approached her and the man she was with looked like he was willing and _able_ to snap you in half.”

_“And that doesn’t concern you at all?”_

“It didn’t, until Tony Stark brought out the first impression rose.” _[He exhales a startled laugh.]_ “Now _that_ definitely made us all think about going home.”

_“Why don’t you explain the first impression rose, for any new viewers out there?”_

“Uh...sure?” _[Scott blinks, confused, before snapping right back into his energetic default and looking eagerly into the camera.]_ “So obviously, people are eliminated at the end of every week during the rose ceremony, right? It’s a big deal, contestants get called up one-by-one by the Bachelorette and presented with roses, and at the end the people who don’t get a rose are eliminated from the competition, yadda yadda yadda.” _[He nods to himself, gaze shifting briefly as he glances at his producer for affirmation.]_ “Well, on the first night, the first impression rose is handed out before the very first rose ceremony. It can happen basically any time during the night; it’s completely up to the Bachelorette. It’s basically just a statement saying ‘hey, this person stood out to me immediately, I’d like to keep them around, they’re a frontrunner, watch out!’” _[He says it all in one long breath.]_ “Obviously everyone wants it, because that person’s singled out as the favorite from pretty much day one. In fact, I think for the past...what, four seasons of the Bachelorette now? For the past four seasons of this show, the person who got the first impression rose ended up winning the _whole competition.”_ _[He makes a small explosion with his hands, giving the camera a meaningful look.]_ “And I don’t think the person with the first impression rose—on the Bachelorette, anyway—has _ever_ made it to less than the final two, so...yeah, it’s a big deal, alright.” _[He sits back again, cupping his chin contemplatively as he finally stops in his long-winded explanation and thinks. He tilts his head, eyebrows rising quizzically as he looks at a point above the camera; presumably, his producer.]_ “Say, who do you think’s gonna get it?”

* * *

There’s no time like the present—or in this case, no time like when a multimillion dollar corporate cable company gives you unlimited access to a fully-stocked bar—to experiment with alcoholic combinations you’ve never tried. Steve’s not much of a drinker, sure, but after his fucking _two minutes_ worth of deep personal connection with Sharon, he figures he deserves this much. At least, that’s how he rationalizes it as he double-fists absinthe and triple sec, contemplating the labels before tossing both into a quarter-cup of lychee juice. God gave him two hands and one mouth for a reason; in this case, so that the two hands could put multiple types of alcohol into his one mouth and release him from the flaming garbage fire of reality.

“I’ll have one of whatever you’re having.”

Steve feels his eye twitch in irritation as the familiar voice cuts in once again—and sure enough, when he looks up, Bucky Barnes is leaning against the counter with that same smirk. Somehow, after having been mildly dicked over, the expression looks infinitely more punchable; Steve settles for putting both bottles within Bucky’s reach, making extremely pointed eye contact that hopefully conveys all his aggravation, and slowly and deliberately downing his blackout abomination. At least, that’s the plan until the alcohol hits his throat; rather than looking like a stone-cold stoic with nothing to lose, he ends up sputtering and hacking cloudy green gunk halfway across the counter.

“...Right, maybe not.” Bucky blinks before slowly leaning over, setting the absinthe back on Steve’s side of the counter. “Can you check and see if they have any single-malt whiskey back there?”

Steve doesn’t say a word as he yanks a bottle out from the bar and puts it on the table with a coaster, because he’s too nice for his own damn good sometimes. Bucky looks him over as he abandons his monstrous alcohol creation-slash-experiment, frowning as Steve stomps around the island and hauls himself into one of the tiny bar stools two seats away from Bucky.

“...You’re angry.”

 _“No.”_ Steve doesn’t even bother fixing him with a deadpan stare. “What gave it away?”

“Ah, shit.” Bucky sighs, contemplating the bottle with a critical eye before reluctantly pouring it into his glass. He takes a drink from it before turning so he’s properly facing Steve—at least, that’s what Steve is pretty sure he’s doing. It’s hard to tell when he’s trying not to look at him. “This is about me cutting into your conversation, isn’t it?”

“Of course not.” Steve rolls his eyes and turns despite himself. “The thirty seconds of chitchat I had before you cut me off hardly qualifies as a conversation. Now, am I angry that you cut into _that?_ Maybe a little.”

For a long second, Bucky simply stares into his cup, face shifting through a number of different emotions before settling on incredulity. He drags a hand over his face, blinking tiredly at Steve as he rubs at his jaw. “I...look, I’m sorry. Pepper told me you’d be cut off anyway, so it might as well be me. That’s not a rationalization, by the way—that’s just me, telling you the story of how I let myself be an ass within the first day of being here.”

“I don’t know, it sounds a little like a rationalization.”

“I swear, it’s not. It’s more of...like, ‘shit, I swore to myself before I came here that I wouldn’t be one of _those motherfuckers_ and now here I am being one of _those motherfuckers_ and Clint made me swear I wouldn’t let fame change me, and I’m just...Jesus, already?’ Do you know what I’m saying?” The bottle of whiskey clinks loudly as Bucky drags it towards himself. “Was there another bottle of this back there, because I kinda wanna drink the entire thing but I don’t wanna do it if there isn’t—oh God.” His eyes widen with comedic horror. “This is also me being an entitled asshole, isn’t it? This is me being a night one alcoholic. Fuck. _Fuck._ Take it away from me before I go full pool-jumper.”

Steve snags the bottle as Bucky slides it across the granite countertop, stamping down a grin despite himself—it’s kind of hard to stay angry when the man looks this angry at _himself._ “Yeah, well.” It can’t be _that_ hard to drink straight from it, right? He goes for it, and the whiskey immediately punishes him for that decision. Is drunken oblivion _really_ worth it? “I hope the conversation you had was worth it.”

“If it makes you feel better, it really wasn’t.” Bucky loosens his tie and settles in, tilting his head back and swivelling idly on his bar stool. “I had, what, a minute tops? Maybe just a little longer than you. Oh my _God,_ no one’s forcing you to drink it, stop giving me that look. Just give it back.” The whiskey passes hands; Bucky goes straight for a long drag, making deliberately smug eye contact the entire time. Steve reminds himself of the contract he signed authorizing any footage to be aired and actively restrains himself from flipping him the bird. “Anyway, then some dick I met earlier cut me off too.”

“Must be a real asshole, cutting your time short and all.” Steve snipes one last time, his tone light. After all, what Pepper told Bucky wasn’t exactly _wrong_ or anything; logically, Steve knows he’s lucky he got the time he got when he got it. “Honestly, though, it’s fine. For the record, I shouldn’t have blown up—s’not your fault you’re trying to stick around. That’s kinda what we’re all here for.”

“Why, Rogers, are you about to give me the ‘not here to make friends’ talk?” Bucky taps the bottom of the bottle nervously against the bar, his leg bouncing in an agitated rhythm as he frowns. “Seriously, though—didn’t mean I had to be a dick about it.”

“You’re _not_ being a dick about it. You’re sitting here with me apologizing, aren’t you?” Steve swipes the bottle back from Bucky, to stop him before he breaks it against the table if nothing else, and takes another cautious sip; it’s not as bad the second time. “Tell you what, though—if you really feel this bad about it, you can make it up to me. Assuming we both get to next week, you let me cut you off. Then we’ll be even, okay?”

He watches as Bucky actively bites down on the start of several sentences before rolling his eyes and holding out his hand. “Alright, done.”

“...Do you want me to...shake your hand?” And alright, he snickers. He can’t help himself. “Should I spit in mine first? Prick my thumb? Sign a contract of some sort? The last one cost me my dignity, so clearly I’ll sign anything—”

“Oh my God, you’re an ass.” Bucky licks his palm for good measure before holding it out again, barely concealing a smirk this time. “Gentleman’s agreement, Steve. In the absence of timetables and sign-up sheets, this is all we have left.”

“This, and honor,” Steve agrees as he sneezes openly into his hand before shaking. He takes the opportunity to crush Bucky’s fingers in his grip, but Bucky simply matches his raised eyebrow and waits for Steve to pull away first. Yeah, he’s starting to like him again. “Next time, we’ll decide who talks to her first the old fashioned way.”

“Coin toss?”

“That’s not skill, that’s _luck.”_ He scoffs. “Rock-paper-scissors.”

“Assuming we get to talk to her at all.” Smug pride flashes through Steve as he watches Bucky flexes his fingers. It almost makes the dull ache in his own worth it. “I don’t know about you, but _I_ was expecting—you know, a sign-up sheet. Like I said earlier. I figured our producers had parcelled out her time so we’d all get an even shot.” Bucky waves a hand through the air, leaning against the counter as he holds out his empty cup. Steve obliges, pouring more whiskey. “Between being in and out of ITMs and talking to producers and _Sharon_ being in and out of ITMs and talking to producers, I don’t think I’ve seen her spend more than five minutes at a time with _anyone._ And even then, that person was Tony Stark.” It’s a little gratifying to see Bucky cringe as he gulps down his entire glass in one go, resurfacing with a cough. “How the hell are we supposed to get to know her within, like, thirty seconds?”

It’s a valid question, but if Steve thinks about it too hard it’ll ruin the tenuous suspension of disbelief he’s been maintaining to justify his decision to come on this show in the first place, so he settles for shaking his head sympathetically. “Classic rookie mistake. You’re questioning the feasibility of a reality TV show, and we’re not supposed to be self-aware—time to cut you off.” He puts the whiskey as far away from Bucky as he can before hopping off his stool. Fuck, his feet hurt; he shouldn’t have decided to break in new shoes night one, not when he can’t take them off on pain of extreme public humiliation. “Here, I’ll make you a cup of coffee; wouldn’t want you to be drunk during the rose ceremony.”

“Does it even matter?” Bucky complains as he swivels in his chair, resting his chin in his hand as Steve starts running the mansion’s Keurig machine. “We’ve been here for too fucking long. I’ve been drunk, then sober, then drunk, and now I’m sober again.” He tilts his head to cast a sidelong glance at the whiskey bottle. “Or shit...maybe now I’m drunk again?”

“Recite the alphabet backwards and we’ll see.”

“Can’t recite it backwards even if I’m sober.” Steve turns around in time to set an empty mug under the machine as he hears Bucky’s head hit the table with a _thunk._ “Y’know, this was _not_ how tonight was supposed to go. Really not worth all the panicking I did in my hotel room before I got here.”

“You? Panic?” Steve smirks to himself, tapping a finger against his crossed arms as he mindlessly watches liquid slowly drip into the cup. “Say it ain’t so.”

“Oh, like this wasn’t— _isn’t—_ one of the most traumatizing experiences of all of our collective lives.” _Thunk._ “And not even because it’s that important, in the grand scheme of things. Just because they’ve been building it up so damn much for the past _year,_ with the convoluted applications and the packing and the hometown filming. And then we get here, scared shitless, and then we don’t even do anything important for more than five minutes.”

“I dunno, I was under the impression we were all meeting the woman of our dreams and living happily ever after.” The coffee machine whirs to a stop, so Steve pops out the used pod and chucks it at the half-filled trash can under the counter; if its contents are any indication, a good number of the other men have been running the same alcohol-caffeine cycle Bucky’s been complaining about. Steve looks over at him; he’s currently rubbing his hands aggressively over his face, blinking blearily and groping blindly for the coffee in Steve’s hands. “Yeah, yeah, here you go. Look alive, Barnes—we’ve still got some time to go. It’s only...” Steve glances over at the stove. “Fuck, is it _four in the morning?!”_

“Behold, the time-warping alternate dimension that is reality television editing.” Bucky takes the mug gratefully from Steve’s hands and takes a large gulp, only to come out smacking his mouth with a frown. “Ugh. Did you give me pumpkin spice coffee? In _March?”_

“Cinnamon roll, actually. Now suck it up and drink your dessert coffee.” Steve turns to make himself another coffee, because he was pretty sure he wasn’t feeling tired until two seconds ago but now he’s looking at the clock and _four in the morning._ “Just how much longer does this night go?”

“This explains it, at least. The nerves just got exhausted out of me.” Behind him, Bucky keeps taking long, reluctant swigs of his coffee—Steve can tell because he keeps whining after each mouthful, like the cinnamon is a personal affront to his sensibilities. “You know, even if shit _does_ work out, this is so not how I pictured meeting my lifelong partner or whatever.” His mug clinks against the table again. “Shit, that’s disgusting. I don’t—I pictured a proper date, you know? Meeting someone and just _clicking_ with them. Not some love at first sight bullshit or whatever, but just—spending time with them and feeling like I could talk to them about literally nothing for hours.” Steve turns in time to see Bucky pull another foul face, although this time to his own words rather than the coffee. “Instead, I spent maybe two minutes trying to cram my philosophy on romance into a tight fifty words.”

“I know what you mean.” He goes back to his own coffee, pumping creamer from a large bottle into his dark roast and swirling it in the cup. “Like, I can’t wait to tell our kids how I met their mother. ‘We talked for maybe two minutes, then we both spent the next eight hours mingling with her other twenty-five boyfriends.’” They both snort into their mugs as they lift them at the same time.

“Bold of you to assume you’ll get married and have kids.” Bucky raises an eyebrow over the rim of his mug, giving Steve a long, critical look. “Then again, the way Pepper was talking, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you’re the type to wanna settle down and reproduce…?”

“I mean, I haven’t really given children much thought, so I guess the ‘reproduce’ is more just me playing into the stereotype. Let’s be honest, if you ask most of the guys here, I think we’re contractually obligated to say we wanna start a family with Sharon.” Steve waves his free hand lazily as he circles back around to Bucky’s side of the counter. “But yeah, I guess. Who doesn’t have a small part of themselves that thinks they might find ‘the love of their life’ and live happily ever after?” As he says the words aloud, his brain record-scratches; he glances over at Bucky, who’s now looking at him with a knowing glint in his eye, as if waiting for Steve to catch on. “Unless...you...don’t? I don’t wanna assume Pepper’s ‘image’ of you is real or whatever, but—”

“Well, kinda.” Bucky shrugs to himself, going back to his coffee as he gazes blankly at a point on the far side of the kitchen. His smile’s a little wistful now. “I mean, I’ve mostly just been playing things by ear. Like you said, haven’t really been focusing on that, y’know?” His eyes flicker over and he shrugs one shoulder half-heartedly. “I figure I should just enjoy things as they come as much as possible, and I haven’t really felt the need to seek out a serious relationship or met anyone I felt personally invested in that quickly.”

Steve lets himself process for a second, humming to himself as he thinks. “So why this show now, then? It certainly doesn’t sound like you need it.”

“Well, I guess I’m starting to feel the need.” Bucky rolls his eyes and smirks. “‘Sides, if it doesn’t work out with Sharon, what better way to advertise that you’re single and looking?”

Like the world’s most exclusive and well-publicized digital dating app. Steve scoffs to himself and raises his cup in Bucky’s direction. “Touché.”

“I mean, really, I could ask you the same question.” Bucky flaps a hand at Steve, a general gesture at his, well, everything. “Looks like yours and _that_ asshole personality, how hard can it be to find a date?”

“Ha. Ha.” Steve fixes Bucky with a deadpan look, hand curled around the warmth of his cup. “Probably because I’m terrible at being a human being within the context of romantic interactions. I get all twitchy and nervous, and—”

“No.” Bucky actually _laughs_ at that, motherfucker, but Steve can feel a reluctant smile crossing his face. “You?”

“It’s true!” Steve catches himself before he goes for a friendly punch on Bucky’s arm—they’re not that close yet. As it is, he grins, adjusting himself to better face the other man. “I start overthinking all my words and worrying about the shit I say, and then I start trying to act like I’m fine even though I’m nervous, and then it all goes downhill from there. Honestly, the whole weirdly intense vibe of the show might _help_ me with all this.” It’s odd, Steve realizes as he says it out loud, but true. “When everything’s _supposed_ to be a little scripted and sound kinda stilted and serious, it’s a lot less like going blind, you know what I mean?”

Bucky fixes him with an inscrutable look, opening his mouth and inhaling before abruptly shaking his head mournfully and clapping a friendly hand on Steve’s shoulder. “That’s rough, buddy.”

It takes him a second. “...Did you just—”

Before Steve can even feel properly scandalized, a producer swoops into their conversation like a bat out of hell, brandishing his clipboard at them like a weapon with a long-suffering expression. “Alright, you two, enough stalling. Go join one of the conversations in the main room.”

Instinctively, Steve sits up a little, irritated at the abrupt intrusion and just about ready to tell the interloper off. Before he can, he sees Bucky shift in his seat; the man glances fleetingly over at Steve, shaking his head quickly. The corner of his mouth quirks upward in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment before he fixes the producer with a blank, harmlessly befuddled stare. “Dude, chill out...dude.”

Steve has to bite down on his bottom lip to stop himself from laughing, schooling his expression into what Sam calls his ‘who-me-I-couldn’t-possibly’ look as he purposely relaxes. Christ, it makes his face hurt. “Yeah, I don’t know.” He tilts his head quizzically, making as large a motion as possible. “Like, what’s the difference between...chilling...over here and chilling over there?”

“F’real, player.” Steve can see Bucky’s hand shaking as he lifts his glass back to his mouth, grinning into it. “Help a brother out, man, wouldja? Don’t...don’t harsh on my mellow!” He snaps his fingers, nodding to himself. “That’s it. Don’t harsh on my mellow, dude. No one likes a buzzkill.”

“Yeah, I am...totally living for this buzz.” Steve has to hide his laughter in a wheezing cough as Bucky begins draping himself fake-casually over the counter in front of the producer’s horrified eyes. “Sorry, where were you saying we should go again?”

The producer looks between them for a long second, obviously torn between calling them out on their obvious bullshit and reacting appropriately on the off-chance that they’re really what Steve can only assume are extras from _Baywatch._ In the end, he settles for fixing them both with a disapproving glare. “Just...save your chit-chat for the cameras.” He eyes the empty mugs on the table for a second, raising an eyebrow at the nearby bottle of whiskey. “Also, maybe drink more coffee.” He eyes them for a second longer; Steve makes sure to blink evenly and let his eyes glaze over as he recites baseball statistics in his head. “Or at the very least, lay off the alcohol?”

“Word to your mother.” Bucky pumps his fist to his chest twice before pointing finger-guns at the hastily retreating back of the producer. Steve’s pretty sure the man’s not even out of earshot before the two of them glance at each other and break down into convulsive laughter. “Oh my _God,_ Rogers, high-five. How long do you think it’ll take before they risk sending someone over again?”

“God, I hope it takes at least a month.” Of course, Steve being Steve, it takes him about ten seconds before the guilt starts setting in. The guy was only doing his job, after all—not his fault if his job entails being annoying as hell. “We _are_ gonna rejoin the conversation eventually, aren’t we? I mean, that’s kind of what we’re here for.”

“Not like we’re getting paid for it or anything.”

“Fair.” Steve breathes out a laugh. “What is _up_ with that, by the way? We _are_ providing extremely monetizable drama and all—it’s not like they’re so hard up they can’t afford to or anything—”

“Well, every single man is here for love and our motivations are all definitely a hundred percent pure, so we obviously wouldn’t take the money.” Bucky rolls his eyes and contemplates his mug for a second, looking contemplatively in the direction the producer left in before shaking his head and grabbing the whiskey again. He knocks it back like he’s doing it purely to spite the production crew. Steve can’t himself from grinning as Bucky raises an eyebrow expectantly and offers the bottle over to him—a man after his own heart. “Yeah, yeah, we’ll serve our time in a second. Just...give me a little longer, let me get back into the mindset of polite agreement.” He shivers, taking on a vaguely haunted look and rolling his shoulders back as if preparing for battle.

“Aw, c’mon, we can’t all be that bad.”

“You don’t get to talk, _you_ got to hang out in the room with Scott and Thor.” Bucky jerks his head aggressively to the room behind them. “I don’t think I was invested or sober enough to remember all eight of the names of the people on that sofa, but _someone_ in there was describing how they got past the drug test they gave us during casting in vivid detail. Step-by-step, as if any of us were gonna try that. _In front of the cameras.”_

“How they...uh.” He snickers. He can’t help it. “Y’know, now I’m curious—how _does_ one dupe a urinalysis?”

“Apparently he froze some of his own piss in an empty tube of toothpaste, shoved it down his pants a half-hour before the test, and—well. You know.” No, no, Steve _doesn’t_ know. He can picture it vividly, however, and the mental image is enough to make him cross his legs protectively and shudder. Bucky nods mournfully. “Do you know how hard it is to pretend to care about this guy as he describes exactly how he held the toothpaste tube next to his penis? Do you?!”

“...Y’know, I’m gonna go out on a limb and say it’s hard—”

 _“Fucking hard,_ dammit. Gimme the bottle.” Bucky grabs the bottle before Steve can actually hand it over, giving it a look like he’d sooner smash it into his head than drink it before he goes for a gulp anyway. “No one wants to hear that shit, for fuck’s sake. So yeah, in no hurry to go back in there.”

“Understandable, although I’d argue listening to Thor talk about his childhood with Loki has gotta be...I don’t know, at least five percent as traumatizing.”

“I call bullshit.”

“No, no, listen.” Steve waves his hands as Bucky passes back the bottle, looking curious. “So when they’re nine, their dad takes them to visit family in Australia, right? And apparently Thor’s deathly afraid of snakes or something, so he’s already—”

“Hey, Steve?”

Steve’s first instinct is to roll his eyes and check his watch, because it’s been a minute _maximum_ since production last got on their ass about finding a camera to sit in front of. When he goes to share a knowing eye-roll with Bucky, however, Bucky’s clambered out of his seat with a deceptively relaxed smile. It’s only because Steve’s seen his _actual_ smile a few seconds ago that he’s able to identify it as tight-lipped, deeply repressed panic.

Ah. Of course.

“Sharon.” He turns—and yep, there she is, gliding over to them with her princess curls and her disco-ball dress. Out of the corner of his eyes, Steve can see the cameras from the other room crowded in the doorway; almost instinctively, he feels his muscles tense as he stands taller. His eyes dart for a second, unsure of where to look, before he fixes his vision smack in the center of Sharon’s forehead. Christ, it’s like he’s back in basic again—quick, what does he say to her that won’t get him in hot water? Did he tell Bucky this was easier? He takes it _all_ back. “I—ha, I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon.”

Internally, he winces. Externally, Bucky digs his elbow into the small of his back. Yeah, he deserves that.

“Well, here I am.” Sharon smiles at him, holding her hand out; on instinct, he takes it and loops it through his arm. Bucky shoots him a subtle thumbs up from the hand on the other side of the camera. “Why don’t you take a little walk with me? I wanna have a little chat with you...”

“Yeah, yeah! Definitely.” Except, Steve realizes as he looks around, the only two exits are the doorway now filled with cameras (the cameraman frantically waves his free hand when Steve comes close to making eye contact) and the one Sharon literally just came in from. “Um. Where—?”

“No, no, no need to leave on my account.” Bucky leans over, all loose limbs and easy charm once more; he snags the bottle right out of Steve’s free hand, smiling mischievously. Steve stares at him hard, about fifty percent _save me, please_ and fifty percent _lend me some of this mystical ability you call ‘social aptitude’._ “I was planning on spending some quality time with this anyway.”

“You go do that, Bucky.” Sharon grins, dropping Steve’s arm and running a hand under her dress as she perches herself onto the barstool.

“Don’t do anything fun without me.” Bucky nudges Steve’s arm as he passes with a grin and a wink, which is a pretty clear sign that he shouldn’t fucking screw this up, dear _Lord._ And then it’s just him and Sharon and a shitton of cameras and no more alcohol, oh no, this show is going to turn him into an alcoholic and why is Sharon here, smiling and wanting to talk to him privately in front of the cameras and wow, okay, he’s about to get _dumped,_ he’s about to have a new worst first date, and then Natasha and Sam will mock him about this forever and he’s going to have to buy himself twenty or so dogs and _die._

From somewhere behind him, Bucky coughs and elbows him in the small of his back again. Steve stumbles a few steps forward and manages to settle himself somewhat nonchalantly (semi-chalantly? _What is happening to his brain?!_ ) back into his chair, which yes. He needed that.

“So, how has your night been?” He speaks, smiles, and immediately regrets everything. Because yes, that’s exactly what he wants to know, how Sharon’s been getting along with the other twenty guys. _That’ll_ make him feel more relaxed. From somewhere on his right, light from the low-hanging lamp flashes off the sleek black casing of the camera. The one he’s _not supposed to look at._ He focuses back on Sharon, staring intently at the powdery silver sheen of her eyeshadow, and then realizes that that’s not helping him with his nerves. He can _feel_ his eyes darting, trying to find something to latch onto without dropping his gaze, and then he spots it dangling from Sharon’s hands.

A flash of red. It’s the _first impression rose._

_Fuck._

Or maybe yay? Steve thinks he’s supposed to be excited, but all he can really think is _fuck._ He tries to muster up a little more coherence, but that only gets him from _FUCK_ to _WHAT THE FUCK,_ which isn’t really much of an improvement.

“So listen,” says Sharon, so Steve tries his best to listen even though there is suddenly really, _really_ loud and slightly hysterical circus music playing on a loop in his head. Sharon is smiling at him now, head tilted so her hair falls over her shoulder and she can stare _directly into his face._ He hopes to high heaven his face is cooperating. “I just wanted you to know that, from the moment you came out of that limo, you’ve made me feel so relaxed and calm in our time together. This night’s been an absolute whirlwind for me, but in all the craziness I just kept going back to that moment with you and you—you know, tripping—”

“Oh God.” Steve laughs self-consciously and more than a little hysterically, putting a hand over his face and rubbing instinctively at where his beard used to be. “I—that wasn’t how I meant to make my first impression—”

“No, no, it was sweet!” Sharon puts a hand on his arm. This is what flirting is, right? This is good, right?! “I liked that! It let me know that you were a real person, that you weren’t afraid of hiding your emotions and you were ready to be open and honest with me. And our time together just felt really comfortable and natural, you know? It made me feel so hopeful for this entire journey, and it made me really look forward to exploring that connection more.”

Yes, because nothing screams ‘comfortable’ or ‘natural’ like all of...this. Steve has a hard time keeping a straight face or taking the entire buzzword-laden speech seriously, but the expression on Sharon’s face is comfortingly sincere and just a touch self-deprecating, like she herself understands how her words have to sound. That, at least, brings his hackles down a bit—the thought that she’s with him in silently acknowledging the artificiality of the entire shitshow. She props up the rose now, her lips quirking up in what looks almost like a knowing smirk.

“With that in mind, Steve, will you accept this first impression rose?”

Oh, like he’s gonna say no. Steve can feel a smile stretching on his face despite himself. “Yes, of course I will.”

“Great.” Sharon smiles back, reaching forward and attaching the rose to his lapel before looking up at him expectantly. It takes Steve a second of hesitation (he can feel the phantom elbow of Bucky Barnes digging into his back, he swears it, alongside the voice of Natasha serenely threatening him with bodily harm in his head) before he laughs and brings Sharon into a hug, smacking a kiss to her cheek on instinct before pulling away. Dimly, he registers the cameras at his side again. Shit, should he have kissed her? He tries dimly to think about the last time he kissed someone on a first date, what had happened night one last season—

“So, how do you feel?”

Good question. There’s a giddiness bubbling through him, no doubt about it—after all that stress about getting to the second week and the voice in the back of his head wondering if he was _really_ gonna be able to fall in love here, he looks like he’s well on his way. More than anything, the guilty validation of being _chosen,_ of being favored out of all the other men here, is what makes him feel both proud and supremely confused. He’s going to be seen as a threat now, obviously—their relationship isn’t exactly limited to the two of them, which is _wow_ a weird thought. He has to remind himself not to overthink things; this is still a first impression, after all, and a lot can change in the following weeks. Heck, he's been told he moves too fast too seriously out in the real world or whatever—and sure, maybe he's validated by the fact that he's expected to be proposal-ready in ten weeks here, but if he doesn't slow his roll here in the fantasy bubble, he's liable to roll right off a cliff. Striking a balance between being marriage-ready in three months without being stalker material in one is gonna be...well. What?

Not that he can really say any of that, of course.

“I’m excited for what we do next,” he says, settling for partial honesty as he draws her back in. She leans into him easily, but her hug is just a little stiff. Steve stares very pointedly at not-the-cameras over her shoulder. “Right, so…?”

“It’s about time to head back.” Sharon slips easily out of her seat, lacing their fingers together and tugging him forward. “Shall we?”

“Of course.” He smiles ruefully. “I really wish I could've stolen you away for a little longer, though...”

“I think that might be frowned upon.” Thankfully, Sharon seems to share his sense of humor; Steve’s awkward enough on his own, let alone with the cameras, let _alone_ with a Bachelorette who doesn’t share his sense of humor. “You’ll be fine on your own, won’t you? Not planning on starting any fights or anything…?”

“I’ll be on my best behavior, ma’am.” Ha. _Haha._ Steve’s tone is purposely light and teasing even as he makes a very aggressive mental note to his shitstarting self to please, for the love of God, not start any fucking fights _please._ “And please, don't have too much fun without me?”

“I wouldn't dream of it.” Sharon looks as if she’s about to say more, but she’s cut off by the fact that they’ve crossed the threshold into the next room and all ten of the men in the room have stood up in unison to greet her with eerily similar degrees of enthusiasm. Steve is, once again, reminded very vividly of basic training and forced to stifle a no-doubt inappropriate laugh; if he starts smiling now, with ten pairs of eyes honed in on the rose at his breast, he has significant doubts about how well it’ll go over. There’s one man in particular who looks like he’s trying to set Steve on fire through sheer force of will and intense, unblinking eye contact. A guy in a shark costume looks like he’s about two seconds away from literally biting his head off.

“Don’t mind us, just passing through.” Thankfully, Sharon tugs his hand, leading him away from the room before the show can make its official transition from ‘The Bachelorette’ to ‘The Hunger Games’. “Steve, do you mind if I leave you in the next room? There’s a few more people I need to talk to before the rose ceremony...”

“Yeah, sure.” As long as it’s not the _first_ room, he’s fine. Indeed, the next room of faces is significantly friendlier; Steve recognizes Scott, Thor, and Bucky among the six or so people who raise their heads to call out to Sharon as they pass through the archway into the next sitting area. Everyone’s looking at his rose again, sure, but it feels less like they’re about to use it as a target to shoot him with. “Uh...hi, guys.”

He gets a few absentminded waves, which is understandable if not a bit embarrassing. It isn’t until something prods him in the calf that he realizes Bucky’s lounging casually on the couch nearest to him, poking at him with a single leather shoe. “Congrats, Steve.”

“Thanks.” Steve sits beside him, accepting the whiskey bottle once more and taking a grateful drink, his nerves settling a little as he notes that the cameras have, at least for now, moved on to Sharon and her skillful handling of five people’s attention at once. Bucky’s watching them with mild interest as if they’re animals in a zoo; the more Steve thinks on it, the more he decides that’s probably an accurate way of describing their current situation. “I’d like to thank the academy for all their hard work—”

“If you wanted to make that joke, you should’ve opened with it, you know.”

Steve ignores the way Bucky is repeatedly rolling his eyes and continues a little louder. “—my parents, for always believing in me. ABC, for providing Sharon with…” He squints down to take a closer look, prodding at the rose on his chest. “...huh, it’s a real rose.”

“What a waste. If they just had a set of thirty fake ones, they could re-use them for every rose ceremony into perpetuity.”

“Where’s the romance?” It’s Steve’s turn to roll his eyes. “Anyway, I’d also like to thank Sharon—”

“Don’t think she can hear you over her other five boyfriends, buddy.”

“—you’ve got no room to talk, you’re one of them.” Steve looks over, matching Bucky’s smirk, and claps a hand on his shoulder. “I’d also like to thank you, for letting me steal your girl. In every sense of the word.”

“I think I hate you.” Bucky takes the bottle from Steve and sets it aside before his eyes light up. “Wait a sec, does this mean we’re even now? For me cutting you off earlier in the night?”

“Not like you did anything, other than leave me the room to myself—”

“What, you think gaping at her like a goldfish was gonna get her to give you that rose? I’m pretty sure ‘jaw dropping’ is just a figure of speech, so I dunno why you felt the need to take it literally—”

It’s probably a good thing when the cameramen finally call over the producers to make the two of them shut up.

* * *

**ITM: Steve Rogers**

_[Steve smiles at the camera, relaxed and giddy; the first impression rose sits on his lapel.]_

“It feels amazing to get the first impression rose. I know there are a lot of good guys out there, so knowing that Sharon feels this comfortable with our relationship right off the bat is really gratifying. Clearly, she saw something she wants to keep around and get to know better in the following weeks.” _[He ducks his head quickly, his eyes widening in realization.]_ “Not that I think this makes me a frontrunner or anything. First impressions are fleeting, after all—there’s a lot more to come, and I’m sure all these guys are gonna focus on their own relationships too.”

_“Still, it feels pretty good to be off the hook for the night, doesn’t it?”_

“Yeah, of course.”

_“And to know you were her favorite of the night.”_

_[He grins, all boyish charm and blue eyes.]_

“I really—I didn’t expect things to go this well. I can’t wait for whatever’s next.”

* * *

**ITM: Brock Rumlow**

_[Although Brock is leaning against his chair in the general approximation of a casual slouch, the line of his shoulders is tense; he doesn’t smile politely so much as bare his teeth at the camera.]_

“Am I happy I didn’t get the first impression rose? Of course not, everybody wants it.” _[He shakes his head, scoffing.]_ “I’m not threatened by Steve, though. I know what I deserve, and I know that Sharon’s gonna see soon that I’m the best guy here for her.”

* * *

**ITM: James “Rhodey” Rhodes**

_[A man dressed in a baggy leather jacket and what one might generously describe as a ‘fancy pork pie hat’ sighs wearily as he looks away from, then back to the camera. The label on the bottom of the screen reads ‘Rhodey, 33; Pilot; Philadelphia, PA’.]_

“Seeing someone else with the first impression rose definitely makes me second-guess my interaction with her. It’s just really disappointing—you wonder what the other person did that you didn’t, what you could’ve done better. Not a great feeling to have.”

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W1_BR_C43_QS.mxf**

_[Contestants Loki Laufeyson and Peter Quill are in the bar area adjacent to the kitchen; Peter doesn’t bother stifling his yawn into his cup of coffee, while Loki observes him with faint disdain as he pours himself a drink. Peter blinks up at him blearily for a few moments before his eyebrows furrow in confusion.]_

“You sure you’re related to Thor?"

_[Loki’s lips curl briefly upward into a faint smirk.]_

“Unfortunately.”

_[Peter shakes his head sympathetically as he goes back to his coffee.]_

“Sucks for you, dude.”

“...Yes, it does indeed.” _[Loki’s eyebrows raise briefly in surprise.]_ “Thank you.”

_[For a second, the two drink their respective beverages in silence.]_

“Didja see the guy with the first impression rose?”

“I did not.”

_[Peter begins nodding off but catches himself before he can faceplant into the island and blinks, shaking his head a few times. His sleep-deprived mind struggles to form coherent sentences; said struggle is evident on his face.]_

“Kinda looked like your brother.”

“...Of course he did.”

_[Peter slaps at his own cheek a few times.]_

“You know what would really suck? Getting sent home night one.” _[He rests his cheek in his hand, rubbing at his face tiredly.]_ “I mean, Sharon’s cool and all, even if we don’t know her that well yet...but man, the ego blow.” _[He yawns again into his palm.]_ “Can you imagine?”

“More than you know.” _[Loki takes a slow sip of his alcohol, frowning contemplatively as he thinks.]_ “...Frankly speaking, I think I would settle for being here longer than Thor.”

_[Peter fixes him with what might be a disapproving look, if he weren’t very obviously exhausted.]_

“I’m pretty sure that counts as ‘the wrong reasons.’”

_[Loki shrugs, supremely unconcerned.]_

“Really, what sort of imbecile would come here purely for the right ones?”

* * *

**ITM: James “Bucky” Barnes**

_[Bucky shifts uncomfortably in place, staring directly into the camera for a split second before his gaze moves to a point directly next to it. He smiles uncertainly. The label across the screen reads: ‘Bucky, 30; Mechanic; Brooklyn, NY’.]_

“So, am I good?”

_[Pepper speaks from somewhere nearby; the camera picks it up, but without a mic attached to her, it’s a little unclear.]_

_“Yes, you’re in focus. You can relax, you know; no one here’s going to hurt you.”_

“Not on purpose, anyway.”

_“Now, now. Don’t be pessimistic.”_

_[Bucky smiles cheekily.]_

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Pepper, dearest.”

_“Flattery will get you nowhere.” [There’s a brief rustle as Bucky adjusts himself into a more comfortable position and relaxes.] “Good, excellent. Now, I know we went over this earlier in your hotel room, but since this is your first ITM of the night, let’s go over it again.”_

“You’re gonna ask me leading questions.” _[Bucky rolls his eyes and recites the words in a droning monotone.]_ “I have to answer them in complete sentences and restate the question each time. I am allowed and indeed encouraged to speak more casually to you also, provided I make complete statements so that my footage can be used.”

_“That’s enough to start with—oh, don’t look at me like that, I’m not pulling your teeth out. Let’s start with a simple question, then—do you feel confident about getting a rose tonight?”_

“I think I’ve got a pretty good chance of getting a rose tonight.” _[Bucky rolls his eyes so quickly it’d be easy to miss; faintly, Pepper makes a disapproving noise.]_ “The talk Sharon and I had might have been pretty short, but we kept it light and I think we were both really comfortable with each other.” _[He smiles knowingly.]_ “You know, it’s amazing what a good conversation can do for your nerves.”

_“I’m glad you and Sharon got along, but don’t you feel worried at all about Steve getting the first impression rose right in front of you? You’re two are pretty different, after all.”_

“Well, I wouldn’t say _that_ —shit.” _[Bucky visibly bites down on his lip, wincing and looking apologetically into the camera.]_ “Uh, can I start that one again?”

_“By all means.”_

“Thanks. Uh...hm. Obviously, I wish I could’ve gotten the first impression rose, but I’m not surprised or disappointed that it went to Steve. He’s a pretty great guy, and it’s obvious he and Sharon got along.” _[Bucky smirks and bites at his lip again, purposely this time. He leans forward.]_ “Besides, I guess I’ll just have to raise the stakes next week, s’all. Isn’t that right, Pepper?”

_“Easy, tiger.” [Pepper sounds amused.] “Save the flirting for Sharon, and the footage we can actually air.”_

_[Bucky throws a rakish wink at the camera and leans back, laughing.]_

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W1_MR_C69_MC2.mxf**

_[A familiar setting: there are about six men sitting in a U-formation, split between a couch and couple of chairs. Four are dressed in tuxedos; one is, inexplicably, in a shark costume reminiscent of a school mascot.]_

“Man, watching her walk in, pick up the rose, and walk back out—that was brutal.”

“So who got it again?”

“That blonde one, Steve? The big guy from New York. Polite, kinda quiet.”

“Shit, and I _still_ haven’t talked to her—”

“Night’s winding down, you’d better hurry.”

“I mean, I thought my limo entrance went okay...” _[He wrings his hands nervously.]_ “How many people do you think are going home?”

“At least five of us, it’s gotta be.”

“There’s twenty-six of us, right? Makes sense to get rid of six, round us down to an even twenty.”

_[The man goes pale, stands, and leaves without a word.]_

“Having the security of that first impression rose...you know what? I really thought I got along well with her.” _[The man looks around.]_ “Has anyone asked Steve just what he did with his time? Where is he right now, anyway?”

“Out by the pool, I think.”

_[The man jerks his thumb over his shoulder; behind him, through an archway facing the open patio area, there’s a distant glimpse of Steve talking with Thor and Bucky. The rose stands out brightly from where it’s pinned on his lapel.]_

* * *

**ITM: Bruce Banner**

_[A man with curly hair has the sleeves of his powder-blue shirt rolled up to his elbows; his suit jacket has been abandoned somewhere off screen. In contrast to the other men, he looks calm and relaxed. The label on the screen reads: ‘Bruce, 33; Radiologist; Albuquerque, NM’.]_

“You know, going into this rose ceremony, reality’s setting in that any one of us could go home. We’ve all done our best, but no one really _knows_ what Sharon’s thinking or how well she’s gotten along with the other men.” _[He glances to the side and smiles, calm and relaxed.]_ “You could cut the tension with a knife, we’re so nervous; it’s a vicious cycle where we’re all freaking each other out. Do you mind if I stay here a little longer?”

* * *

**ITM: T’Challa Udaku**

_[The man on screen carries an aura of cool confidence, and is dressed in what is by far the most sleek, expensive suit of the night; metallic stitching lines his shoulders in a complicated geometric pattern. The label across the bottom of the screen says: ‘T’Challa, 31; Tech Mogul; San Jose, CA’.]_

“I hope I was able to make a good impression on Sharon. I want a rose very badly—it would be disappointing to go home on the first night.”

_“And how do you think it went?”_

_[He smiles wryly.] “I_ thought it went well, but it’s not up to me, is it? You never really know until you’ve got the rose in your hand.”

* * *

“They’re fucking with us. They’re doing it on purpose.”

Steve risks a glance out of the corner of his eye; from the looks of it, Bucky’s staring at the same part of the wall he is, standing ramrod straight in what looks suspiciously like parade rest. His lips barely move, frozen in a grin that borders on a grimace.

“They’re just trying to get a good shot,” Steve mutters back. All twenty-six men are arranged in three rows in a wide semicircle around Sharon, who’s standing remarkably still by a half-filled tray of roses. This does _not_ look like a firing squad, he reminds himself, more so he doesn’t laugh than anything else. About half the men have roses now, visibly sagging in place as adrenaline trickles off into relief; the other half are nervously shifting their weight, glancing around to size up the remaining competition. Steve and Bucky aren’t the only ones whispering to each other, but every now and then a producer fixes the entire crowd with a particularly vicious glare and the quiet chatter dies. “They might’ve been fucking with us if they’d done this for the first five, but at this point they’ve gotta be just as tired as—”

“Do you see the cameraman over by Thor?” Bucky’s voice drops to a low murmur as a producer darts by, shooting Bucky a glare. Steve looks over—there’s a young man with silver hair dressed entirely in black, watching a production assistant adjust a light on the other side of the room with a bored expression. “He’s been twisting the same red wire for the past three minutes. He’s either fucking with us or building a bomb and preparing to blow this entire mansion to smithereens.”

“Well, you’re still envisioning scenarios that result in _escape_ from this eternal torment, so it’s nice to know we’re being positive about it.” Luckily, being at the end of the row gives Steve an opportunity to lean over and tap the closest passing production assistant on the shoulder. The boy turns around, taking on a brief look of panicked confusion. Upon closer inspection, he does _not_ look old enough to be here. “Hey, what the hell’s happening? Why is this taking so long?”

“Yeah, is the equipment busted or something?” The man in the row behind him—some hairy lumberjack type with hair spiked high on both sides of his head—crosses his arms and frowns like he’s about to pick a fight with the closest living creature. The production assistant looks frozen somewhere between awe and debilitating panic, eyes round. “They spend, like, five minutes adjusting it every time someone gets a rose. And why does Sharon keep leaving the room?”

“Not to complain, but I heard that if you stand like this when the wind blows, your face freezes like this,” Bucky chimes in as he leans over Steve’s shoulder to show the boy his most threatening slasher smile. The boy lets out a high whine, then immediately makes things worse by slapping a hand over his mouth so quickly the sound resonates across the room. “Do you wanna have to stare at _this face_ for the next week, son?”

“Bold of you to assume you’ll be here next week.”

“Shut the fuck up, Rogers, I’ll have a rose by the end of the night. If they stop _taking so goddamn long._ ”

“Alright, alright, I think he gets it.” And if he hasn’t gotten it yet, he looks intimidated enough that he’s not likely to get it if Bucky, Anonymous-Lumberjack, and Steve keep glaring at him with their arms crossed. Anonymous-Lumberjack’s biceps look to be about as big as the production assistant’s head, and from the way he keeps looking at them, production assistant is acutely aware of this fact. Somewhere beneath his complete exasperation about the current state of his life, he feels guilt and something a little like kinship—he’s been there. “Do you think you can ask someone how much longer this might take, though? I mean, _all_ of us seem about ready to drop—it’s been a pretty big night.”

Understatement. Caffeine, adrenaline, alcohol, and relief war within him. Every time a camera swings over, his spine straightens. He started humming Caramelldansen just to have something to do what he _assumes_ is an hour ago, which made Bucky start elbowing him, so now both his sides and his kneecaps are in pain. The fucking _sun_ is rising.

“Uh.” The production assistant blinks apprehensively, presumably in response to whatever crazy wide-eyed stare Steve’s been directing at him. “This is actually my first season working here, so I don’t really know—”

“Hey, kid!”

Maybe it’s just Steve’s sleep-deprived mind, but Tony Stark— _the_ Tony Stark, tech genius and television personality and, more recently, host of the entire Bachelor franchise—practically apparates out of thin fucking air to clap a hand on the production assistant’s shoulder.

“You. Your name is Peter, right?” Tony jostles him around a little as he straightens a suit that, no surprises here, looks like it costs more than all Steve’s organs would sell for on the black market combined. “Peter—something funny, wasn’t it? Peter Piper? Peter Piper picked a peck of—Peter Pepper? Ha, Pepper’d get a kick out of that.” He blinks to himself for a second. “Actually, Pepper _would_ get a kick out of that. Hey, where’s Pepper?”

“Busy, Tony.” Pepper strides into Steve’s line of sight, sidesteps Tony and Peter without looking up from her clipboard, and continues back out.

“Right. Right.” Tony turns back to the production assistant, who’s now dragging a hand over his face. “Anyway, Peter Piper—”

“Peter _Parker,_ sir.”

“—Parker, yeah, that’s what I said.” Tony squints up at the three disgruntled contestants, as if just noticing their existence. “Is the talent bothering you? ‘Cause last I checked, that wasn’t in their job description, so if you say the word I’ll—”

“Look, I’m sorry, but how much longer is this gonna take?” Steve cuts in impatiently, trying to manipulate his face into an expression Sam has told him conveys shame and dishonor on one’s family. He thinks he’s wearing it well, because Peter looks cowed despite not being the intended target, but Tony just lifts an eyebrow. “A lot of us are used to seeing this happen all in one take on TV, so when equipment’s being moved around and Sharon’s leaving the room every four roses, we have no idea if something’s gone wrong or not. All twenty-six of us have been doing our best to put on a show since we got here, and the last time any of us had the opportunity to eat anything was—what, twenty hours ago?”

“I’m running on caffeine,” Bucky adds helpfully, eyes going slightly crazed. “Caffeine and emotional compartmentalization.”

“It’s only been twelve hours,” Peter says. Four pairs of eyes turn to him and he shrinks back, clearly regretting every decision ever made. “I mean...we started filming when it was dark...and now the sun’s only just starting to rise, and—”

“Yes.” Steve nods slowly, feeling very much like he’s having an out of body experience. “Yes. That was twelve hours ago. But it _feels like twenty.”_

“He means years, by the way,” Scott adds from the bottom row. Their conversation has drawn the attention of a few men by now, actually. “It feels like it’s been twenty. Years.”

“We’ve been operating at full capacity for _twenty years,_ and now it’s morning.” Steve waves a hand in the general direction of the windows. “We should know how much longer this takes. At the very least, we need to refuel. Can we just...I don’t know, go to the kitchen and grab some breakfast or something? Something substantial that isn’t coffee or alcohol?”

 _“Breakfast,”_ Bucky moans longingly. In a way that makes Steve feel slightly uncomfortable, actually. “Break this fast, dammit. _Please.”_

“Or I might break your arm,” adds Anonymous-Lumberjack as an afterthought. They’re all looking a little desperate right now, come to think of it. Either that, or Steve’s projecting. “I’m joking, mostly. But I might break my _own_ arm. Just to get breakfast.”

“...Hm.” Tony looks them over with a critical eye, gaze lingering on Steve. “Well...nothing’s broken that I know if, this _is_ actually normally how it goes, and Sharon leaves the room to get the next batch of names because really, she just met all twenty-six of you a little while ago, we don’t need her giving a rose to the wrong person—”

“Way to bruise an ego.” Peter Quill winces from somewhere behind Bucky.

“I can ask someone how much longer this’ll take, but you’re not leaving your positions until the rose ceremony’s over—”

“For the love of _Christ,_ we’re about to keel over here.” Steve’s kinda too tired and emotioned-out in general to be truly angry, but really, this is just the universe being an unfair dickhead via Tony Stark as proxy. “We’ve been surrounded by cameras since we got in the house—everyone’s keyed up, and no one’s been relaxed enough to catch a single break. We’ve basically been _working_ for you for twelve hours without getting paid.”

“You _did_ sign up for this, Golden Boy.”

“When we signed up, I’m pretty sure none of us were envisioning _this scenario in particular.”_ Steve gestures at the assembled men, most of whom nod. “We’re basically all running on adrenaline right now, but that’s not fucking sustainable, and you’re telling me we’ll have to continue like this until God knows when? Then at least have the decency to _feed us.”_

For a second, it looks like Stark might turn around, walk out into the streets of California, and recruit a replacement for Steve right off the street. For a second, Steve welcomes freedom from what might be either a nightmare or purgatory.

And then Tony Stark smiles fondly, reaches his hand over to ruffles Steve’s hair, and _laughs._

“There’s one in every season, Peter, isn’t there?” Tony turns to Peter for backup, seemingly unperturbed by the fact that he’s now halfway across the room. Peter frowns and mutters something about it being his first season on set, which Tony blissfully ignores. “Making sure everyone’s okay, taking care of all the other men—what’d I say, Pepper?” He looks around. “Huh, Pepper’s not here. Peter, write it down—I called it. I _told_ her Steve Rogers would be house dad this year, and what do you know? Proven right on the first day!”

“...Uh.” Steve blinks, the wind thoroughly taken out of his sails. “House dad?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Tony says, as if Steve is not currently actively worrying about it. “And listen, I’ll make you guys some breakfast sandwiches to eat between takes—trust me, this isn’t uncommon, I’ve usually got everyone’s food preferences down by week four each season.” The host tilts his head up, raising his voice and addressing the men at large. “Speaking of, any vegetarians here? People who don’t like eggs? Or salt? Or happiness, or whatever?”

He walks away as people start calling back to him, followed for about five steps by a thoroughly relieved Peter before the production assistant immediately rethinks it and beats a hasty retreat in the opposite direction.

“House dad, huh?”

Bucky’s grin looks decidedly shit-eating.

“I am _not,”_ Steve hisses back, even as the two of them resume parade rest as Sharon reenters the room. “Shut up.”

“Yeah, sure.” Bucky nudges him in the side. “Thanks for getting us food, Pops.”

“Never call me that again.”

“Sure thing, Daddy.”

Steve steps on Bucky’s foot and chalks the smile growing on his face up to his alarming level of sleep deprivation. Really, the man thinks he’s _funny._

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W1_RS_C4_DJ.mxf**

_[The men quiet down as Sharon enters the room, flanked by Tony and her producer Phil; she glides to a stop beside a tray with seven roses remaining. A few men shift nervously within the otherwise-stoic huddle. It’s eerily silent, save for the birds beginning to chirp outside.]_

“Alright, action.”

_[Sharon sighs, picks up a rose, and holds it out in front of her for a moment. She looks out among the assembled men; a number of cameras whir in the corners of the shot as the zoom in on particular faces. Finally, Phil taps on her shoulder.]_

“...Bucky.”

_[The camera zooms in to follow Bucky as his entire demeanor changes in an instant; he smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling as his shoulders sag in relief and he steps down. Steve’s hand follows him briefly, patting him on the back before he breaks free from the last line of men and strides up to Sharon. The two of them smile at each other.]_

“Bucky, will you accept this rose?”

_[Bucky smiles.]_

“How could I say no to you?”

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W1_RS_C6_QS.mxf**

_[Sharon is nowhere to be seen, but three roses remain on the tray in the middle of the room. The men are still in formation, quietly eating breakfast sandwiches; there’s a low murmur of chatter that fades every time a producer shoots a glare their way. Wade Wilson has ketchup on his suit; the camera zooms in and out on the stain dizzyingly rapidly, and the person behind the camera snickers. Suddenly, another voice—distinctly feminine—cuts in close by.]_

“What the hell are you doing?”

 _[The camera abruptly stops on James Rhodes, who’s accomplishing the rather remarkable feat of falling asleep while standing_ and _with his eyes open. The man behind the camera lowers his voice conspiratorially as his voice fading as if he’s turning away.]_

“What does it look like? I’m observing them.”

“Well, _stop_ observing them.”

“You can do it too! Just put on your headphones and turn up the audio sensitivity. I wanna know what those two over there are whispering about.”

“That’s an invasion of privacy.”

“Are you _really_ going to argue that any of these contestants care about their privacy?!”

“Yes.”

“Spoilsport.”

“I am as God made me. _You_ are as the devil made _you.”_

 _[There’s a pregnant, teasingly incredulous pause.]_ “We’re _twins,_ Wanda.”

“We’re _fraternal,_ Pietro.” _[The woman sighs.]_ “Stop—don’t do that. Don’t touch my equipment. I’m not going to spy on them.”

“C’mon, I’m _bored._ Aren’t you bored?”

“...Sharon will be back soon—”

“Ha! Not a no.”

“—and then Phil will see you and we’ll get in _trouble,_ dumbass!”

“For what?” _[The cameraman swivels the camera around at random again; the shot lands on Steve and Bucky, who are swapping halves of their sandwiches. Steve is trying to meticulously rip his into equal portions, while Bucky simply scarfs down half of his before placing what’s left on Steve’s paper plate.]_ “We’re not supposed to turn off the equipment between takes, and it’s not like they’re gonna use footage of them eating.” _[He snorts.]_ “God forbid they be _human_ and do things like chew noisily or fart or whatever.”

_[As if to prove a point, the contestant closest to them farts conspicuously. On screen, Bucky laughs as Steve carefully eats around his bite marks, glaring halfheartedly even as he conceals his smile behind his eggs. If one were to lip-read, they might infer from Bucky’s words that Steve Rogers does, indeed, chew noisily.]_

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W1_PRS_LF.mxf**

_[The scene has changed to the main room now; the men are crowded close to Sharon in an open circle, each with a rose on their lapels. Sharon holds her glass of champagne aloft.]_

“It wasn’t easy for me to send six people home, because I already feel close to so many of you...but I feel really confident about the twenty of you standing here with me, and I really believe that I could find a man to share my life with in here.”

_[Half-hidden in the crowd, Bucky bites the corner of his lip to stop himself from smiling as he raises a skeptical eyebrow. Loki rolls his eyes.]_

“It’s gonna be a hell of a ride, but we gotta keep putting one foot in front of the other. In the end, I’m sure it’ll all be worth it.” _[Sharon smiles.]_ “Cheers!”

_[The men raise their glasses, responding in kind.]_

“And...that’s a wrap!”

_[Almost immediately, producers swoop in and lead Sharon away. The contestants seem to breathe out a collective sigh as they break off into smaller huddles; men begin to talk amongst themselves with a generally relieved, if tired, air. A few stragglers are picked off by producers as the crew begins to pack up their equipment, but snippets of conversation can be heard among the bustle.]_

“—mean to say that I’m glad it’s over? Holy shit, I’m _exhausted._ At least we get tomorrow off—I’m looking forward to catching up on sleep. I don’t think I could handle it if we had to move into the house _tonight._ Although I don’t think I can handle spending more time in the hotel room, either—we’ve been trapped there for three days…”

“—was I saying? Oh, right. So, when the producers flew out to film my introduction bit, they didn’t even want me to walk around my hometown—they just took the _one line_ in my intro questionnaire about raising chickens on the farm and turned my entire personality into a chicken bit.”

“—got sick a lot when I was little, I’m just _used_ to being paranoid about germs and stuff. I didn’t even eat stuff my mom had bitten. It’s not like I think I’m gonna get anthrax from you or anything...oh my _God,_ don’t look so wounded, you jerk! Why do I feel bad? This isn’t even something to feel bad about!”

“—kinda dishonest, because—oh, right, you don’t follow the show that closely. They always pass off episode two like ‘last night I saw the bachelorette, I had a good talk with her last night,’ etcetera, etcetera. So it’s kinda weird to get here and realize that we’re just gonna pretend ‘last night’ was last night when it’s the day after tomorrow and ‘last night’ is really today—or, I guess, tomorrow, because we’ve stayed up past midnight—although by then it’ll be the day before yesterday...oh, God, I need sleep. I need sleep _so bad.”_

“—got a normal intro, I hope, but the B-rolls. You know, the filler footage they need so they can cut it over recordings of your voice? Right, so they had me film a few of _those,_ which mostly just involved—I don’t know, me running across a beach shirtless? Me leaning against a barn that I’m pretty sure was _not_ public property? Me skipping a stone across a pond and then dramatically turning into the camera? They wanted me to look ‘broodingly into the distance’ or some shit, so I just played ‘How to Save a Life’ in my head, haha—”

“—right, alright, sorry. What about the chewing, though, huh? Like a goddamn bulldozer. I can only imagine how bad your _snoring’s_ gonna be—Jesus, I can’t believe I agreed to bunk with you. How do you even know they have bunk beds in the house? How much do you _watch_ this show? Actually, no, shut up, I don’t wanna know. I’m getting the bottom bunk, though, y’hear? I’ve paid my dues with the whole cutting-off thing—still sorry about that, though, by the way—and if I’m gonna have to put up with you for the rest of the week, I am _getting the bottom bunk,_ do you hear me, Rogers?”

“—don’t know which I need more, a shower, a snack, or some GD sleep—”

“—the only human interaction I’ve had other than my producers for the past week. I’ll see you...in two days, I think—”

“—cameras weren’t as bad as I thought, actually, but it’ll take some time to get used to them—”

“—still feels like a fever dream, honestly. Did we _really_ just go through that?”

* * *

**ITM: James “Bucky” Barnes**

“I’m really glad that I get to stick around for another week—I’m, ah, really excited to get to know Sharon.” _[He pauses for a moment, blinking blearily at the camera.]_ “...Can I go now? Please? Dear God, I’m fucking exhausted.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -lamp entrance was real. i don't remember which year, i just remember i was reading sharleen's recaps while writing and saw the lamp and it had to be there.  
> -what was steve's pre-prepared limo entrance you ask to which i answer this will become relevant in like the epilogue  
> -itm stands for 'in the moment'. it's basically the equivalent of other reality-tv 'confessionals'; i'm using itm instead bc the whole strange idea is that they can be recorded after the date's over or even weeks afterwards, but you use present tense so that when it airs it's as if it's happening right then  
> -uncut footage naming convention: Week#Day#_Room_Clip#_Camera.mxf. to pull an in-chapter example, 'W1_SR_C29_QS.mxf' is week 1(since it's just the rose ceremony, no day needed), in the sideroom, clip 29 from that camera, filmed by cameraman with the handle QS (in this case, pietro maximoff). MC indicates a mounted camera without a cameraman. it's not gonna be super important, but in case anyone was curious.  
> -OF COURSE TONY STARK WAS ALWAYS GONNA BE CHRIS HARRISON. you poor naive fools.  
> -i have the backstories of all the major mcu characters and hometown rationalizations, but they never get relevant. i'll put 'em in my endnotes one of these days.  
> -'but sen', i hear you whisper, 'will you ever stop writing stupidly long ensemble fics?' and to that i answer with hysterical sobbing.


	3. Week 2

Bucky Barnes wakes up while the sun’s barely peeking over the horizon, which is a sure sign that he’s currently in the deepest flaming circle of hell.

And then Steve Rogers sticks his beaming face right smack dab into his field of vision, which is a sure sign that he’s currently in the deepest flaming circle of hell with the _literal devil standing right over him._

“Oh, good, you’re up. I didn’t wanna wake you,” says Steve Rogers, the literal devil, cheerfully ignoring the fact that Bucky is in fact not up at all. “There isn’t a gym in the house and we haven’t been allowed to go anywhere on our own in the hotel, so a couple of the guys and I were gonna go for a run. Apparently, there’s a giant hill out behind the mansion.” He smiles. Like smiling is still possible, so far away from God’s light. “You want in?”

“...Steve.” Bucky’s actually impressed with how quickly he manages to scrounge up a word that isn’t ‘fuck’ or ‘nghmf’ or ‘I’m going the fuck back to bed and if you try to stop me I’ll eat your entire ass’. “I will only ever run twice in my lifetime. It’s written in the stars. _Twice._ Today is not one of those times.”

“Oddly specific. Continue.”

Bucky swings his legs over the side of the bed, but it takes him a full minute before he can claw his torso upright. He rubs his eyes as they adjust to the light—he’s in the Bachelorette mansion, in a room with three bunk beds, staring up at Steve who’s sporting abominably ill-fitting work out gear and a mildly confused look.

“The first time was in high school, which is when I came home and my sister told me my mom had found my weed.” He does his best to glare at Steve, but it’s all a little fuzzy and honestly, he might just be squinting. “The second time will be the next time you suggest I get out of bed to do physical exercise before noon, which is when I’ll chase you down with a steak knife and cut off your balls. We’ll see how Sharon likes you then.”

“Alright, point taken.” Steve smiles. _As if smiling is possible, so far away from God’s light._ “I’m just gonna go, then. See you during filming!”

Ugh. Right. _Filming._ Because he’s going to have to be up in two hours anyway to be presentable. Because he chose this life. A life without _profanity._

“No, no, no, you’re not getting away that easy. You did this to me, you haul me up. I need to piss now.” Bucky holds up his hands, although it’s all a little fuzzy and oh, wait, he’s lying down again. That explains why he needs to be helped up, at least. The world goes sideways as he’s dragged out of bed, the sudden change in position making his head spin. “Although I’m surprised I still have enough water left in my body.” He sniffs surreptitiously at his shirt. “...Did I decide to go for a swim at four in the morning or something?”

“No, it’s just that this giant, pimped-out mansion we’ll be spending the next three weeks was designed by a sadist who decided people in Los Angeles didn’t need air conditioning.” Steve shrugs, following Bucky out of the room as they meander uncertainly towards the general direction of the bathrooms they used night one. “Between you and me, I think we might’ve been conned into secretly signing up to be on Survivor.”

“No air conditioning.” Bucky stares at Steve dumbly. Steve, who is still smiling, in this place _so far from God’s light._ He’s a New Yorker, god damn it—they’re _both_ New Yorkers. Dante’s depiction of hell is a frozen wasteland. He could _tolerate_ a frozen wasteland. Let’s face it, Brooklyn _is_ a frozen wasteland, four months out of the year. “Oh my God, is this officially _worse than hell?!”_

“Now, now, give New Jersey some credit. _Nothing_ is worse than New Jersey.”

And then they stop at the bathrooms.

Of which there are _three._

In a house for _twenty-six._

“Okay,” says Steve, blinking dumbly as a very naked Wade Wilson sidesteps a line of men in workout gear that stretches into the kitchen, “maybe this is on par with New Jersey.”

* * *

**ITM: Steve Rogers**

_[It’s a beautiful sunny day in Los Angeles County, California. Steve’s standing in a cabana with long, white drapes and colorfully decorated furniture. The out-of-focus background is a lush, colorful green.]_

“Walking through the Bachelor mansion, I just can’t believe I’m really here. It’s such a beautiful place to get to know Sharon.” _[He smiles widely, practically giddy.]_ “Honestly? I just wish she’d walk through that door. Getting that first impression rose makes me really excited to see what happens next, and I’m looking forward to the future.”

_“And what about the other guys in the house?”_

“I think I’m getting along with the other guys in the house pretty well. It’s, ah, a pretty weird situation we’re all in, but if anything that’s all the more reason to be friends and get along. We’ll be seeing a lot of each other, won’t we?”

* * *

**ITM: James “Bucky” Barnes**

_[It’s a beautiful sunny day in Los Angeles County, California. Bucky Barnes looks ready to commit homicide.]_

_“So, how do you—”_

“I am not answering any of these questions.” _[He shifts his glare to the camera, flicking his sunglasses off his forehead and into his face.]_ “I have been through hell.”

* * *

**ITM: Bruce Banner**

_[It’s a beautiful sunny day in Los Angeles County, California. Bruce is sitting on one of the couches in the cabana, jittering nervously as he shakes his leg.]_

_“How are you getting along with the other guys?”_

“I’m getting along with them, I—” _[He cuts off, leaning forward desperately.]_ “—okay, look, I’m just saying. We’re in a mansion on reality television. Shouldn’t they have _planned_ for more bathrooms?!”

* * *

“Wow, what a nice pool.” Listen, Bucky’s not good at acting. He made that _very_ clear to Pepper on his audition paperwork, he’s _sure_ of it, so he directs his words very purposefully toward where she’s busy glaring at him through the camera on the patio. They thought he’d be _charming._ Those fools. “A responsible, well-behaved pool. I can’t believe we didn’t see it on night one. It’s not like someone literally jumped into it halfway through the evening or anything.”

“Well, we were a bit busy trying to get to know Sharon yesterday,” Steve responds amicably, skimming a toe over the water. Bucky is starting to realize that Steve, for all that his mental state achieves a level of panic akin to a baby deer faced with an obstacle course of active chainsaws, has the sleeper ability to bullshit his way through this show that even he doesn’t seem to be entirely aware of. And then he has the ability to turn his head halfway, so that the cameras can’t see him full-on, and give Bucky a smirk that makes it clear that he’s _fucking_ with him, that asshole.

“Fuck _right_ off,” he shoots back before he can help himself. Pepper lowers her head onto her clipboard, but the alternative is shoving Steve into the pool, so really, he’s doing his best here. “I slept until five in the afternoon yesterday, talked to Pepper about minding my language yesterday, and watched the Food Network until I passed out yesterday. _None_ of those things involve getting to know Sharon. _That_ was the day before yesterday, and I’m not sure _why_ we’re pretending it was actually yesterday.”

“Wait, did you see that rerun of Cutthroat Kitchen Judges or whatever?” One of the other men loitering with them along the side of the pool—someone Bucky saw in passing on night one, a man with curly brown hair who looks a little like Austin Powers—looks up with mild interest. “Because I’m glad Antonia Lofaso won, but geez, that last sabotage was brutal—”

 _None of this is usable,_ Pepper mouths from the other side of the pool viciously. She accompanies this with a few hand gestures that Bucky elects to ignore, instead turning his attention to the stranger.

“I’m sorry, what’s your name again? I swear I remember who you are, it’s just that there were so many people in the room.” He glares pointedly at the camera. “The _day before yesterday.”_

“Cameron...K. K for Klein,” he adds as an afterthought, stretching out a hand to shake. “You’re...Bucky, right? I remember that name. And _you’re_ Steve Rogers, the guy with the first impression rose who got us all food. Thanks for that, by the way.”

“No problem.” Steve glances over at Pepper, and whatever he sees clearly makes him take pity. “We should probably just try looking somewhere else, now—”

“Excellent idea, Steve. It’s about time you all gathered in the main room anyway.”

“Oh, really?” Bucky raises an eyebrow as Pepper starts forcibly shoving them into the house again. “Because I could keep walking around, y’know, pretending it’s the first time I’ve seen all this stuff like we didn’t move in last night. Really, I don’t mind.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” She prods him in the back particularly hard with her pen while herding them into the adjacent room, which, alright, he deserves. He still doesn’t know enough about the house to find his way around solo, so it’s a relief when Pepper directs them until they get to where they need to be—the cameras are already set up at various angles around the room while a blonde producer glares half-heartedly at everything in general. “Alright, Christine, where do we want ‘em?”

“Anywhere there’s room,” says Blonde-Producer.

There is not room.

“Some of us are gonna have to stand,” Steve mutters from where he’s crammed himself into the end-seat of the couch as the men try absurdly to shove their bulky selves together to make more ass room. _No, thank you._ Bucky’s suffered enough today and he’s already had a taste of what this entire process is like, he’s not standing in the fringes of the room or getting himself slowly crushed into the space between couch cushions for three hours while the production crew stalls them until the sun shines at the right angle or disappears behind cloud cover or expands into a red giant and swallows the fucking Earth or whatever.

“Not today, Satan,” he mutters for good measure before hauling himself neatly onto the arm-rest of the nearest sofa, nimbly folding himself up and dumping his feet into the minimal space between Steve’s legs. “C’mon, move your thighs, Steve. I’m trying to convey casual charisma here.”

“I’m not _manspreading_ so that you can model for the camera, you j—jerk—”

“—you were gonna say jackass, weren’t you.”

“I would _never._ ”

“Alright, you lot.” Yet another producer—a bald, clean-shaven man with glasses—claps his hands sharply. “As you might’ve guessed, we’ll be getting the first date card soon. Before that happens, though, we’d like to hear your thoughts and have you discuss among yourselves. What do you all think of Sharon? What was it like meeting her for the first time?”

“She was _amazing,”_ someone pipes up emphatically. Bucky notes, with chagrin, that all seems suspiciously quiet on the production/tech front. “I gotta say, she’s everything I dreamed she’d be like and more.”

“She’s absolutely gorgeous. Stunning, both inside and out.”

“When I saw her standing there...” The man fans himself with a whistle. Someone else makes a sizzling sound effect. God, Bucky wants to _die._

“I want to die,” mutters Steve. Bless Steve. A producer glances in their general direction and Steve smiles like butter doesn’t melt in his mouth and says some sort of buzzword-laden platitude. _Bless Steve._ Bucky thinks he’d be fine letting Steve play for the camera for however much longer he ends up being here.

Eventually, people just start repeating each other and branching out occasionally before they’re subtly redirected back to topics relating to last-night-that-was-not-last-night, and Bucky’s beginning to think he should’ve looked for food in the house instead of going back to sleep because he’s starving and at this point is starting to doubt that there’s food in the house at all, just copious amounts of alcohol and caffeine and breakfast sandwiches from Tony Stark’s ass.

As if the thought of Tony Stark’s ass can summon him out of thin air, there’s a sudden knock on the door. The entire couch sways precariously as various people startle out of their positions.

“Uh, I’ll get it,” Anonymous-Lumberjack from last night (shit, _not_ last night) pipes up from the corner of the room. And lo and behold, in walks Tony Stark and his breakfast-summoning ass. One can dream, anyway, when one is as hungry as Bucky is.

“Gentlemen, welcome to the Bachelor mansion!” The man spreads his arms wide, summoning forth requisite applause with a wide grin and a half-bow. He’s dressed almost forcibly casually, button-up polo rolled up to his elbows and a truly...truly horrendous pair of jeans matched with a belt. Christ. Bucky’s glad he dresses himself here. “How are you liking the house?”

There’s a familiar chorus of cheers. Bucky pumps his fist lazily with his usual cheeky grin.

“Naturally, of course. Why wouldn’t you?” A small ripple of laughter. God, this is Bucky’s life now. “So, obligatory refresher on how this works: every week there’re a few dates, both individual and group. There’ll be a rose on each date, but—shocker!—there’s a twist.”

Silence.

“What, no one’s gonna ask me what the twist is?”

“We already _know_ the twist, Tony,” calls Steve irritably.

“Cut that part, will you?” Tony waves a hand at the cameras without looking at them. “Yes, that’s right—if you don’t get a rose on your individual date, you’re sent home immediately. Go to jail, go directly to jail, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred, and please pack your bags before the date just in case because if you don’t I _will_ find all your valuables and keep them.” He claps his hands on the last three words for emphasis. “Now, if I’ve said this once, I’ve said it...uh, fourteen seasons of the Bachelorette plus twenty-three seasons of the Bachelor...am I getting old? Oh my God, Pepper, am I getting _old?!”_

Pepper throws her pen at him.

“Right, no talking to you when filming.” Tony clears his throat. “Where was I? Oh, right. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it thirty-seven times, but my advice for the season—spend as much time with Sharon as you can! Not everyone has a date every week! Not every date gives you the opportunity for quality interaction! Every second counts! You can’t turn back the hands of time! And so on, and so forth. Now, as for the details of the dates themselves, you’ll find them out in due time—and oh, wouldja look at that, it looks like I’ve just conveniently got a date card right here in my back pocket. How’d that get there?”

True to his word, Tony pulls an envelope out of his truly horrendous Old Navy jeans and slides it onto the table. A few of the men cheer, but the tension in the room palpably rises by about twenty-four degrees.

“I’ll just leave that right here for you guys to fight over.” He coughs into his hand as he begins backing toward the door, possibly in response to Pepper and the brand new pen clenched tightly in her fist. “Or civilly discuss over! Not condoning violence, that’s against your contracts. Not that you’re all on contracts, where’s the romance in that? Good luck to all of you, make friends with each other, but also everyone here is your enemy and most of you will leave this place emotionally scarred. Did I miss anything—no, what am I talking about, I’m a genius. That’s why I’m about to run for my life.”  He blithely sidesteps three pens being simultaneously hurled at his head from three different directions. “I hope to see you all at the next rose ceremony!”

With that, Tony Stark throws up peace signs, pulls a pair of aviators out of wherever he keeps his breakfast sandwiches, and exits the room. The man’s a legend.

Luckily, no one has to fight over the date card—instead the man closest to it, who happens to be a friend of a person Bucky remembers only as Night-One-Douchebag, grabs the card and flips it open. When he reads the card, his eyebrows raise.

“...Stephen.”

Steve sighs morosely, lolling his head to the side and fixing Bucky with a dry look. Bucky holds his finger and thumb an inch apart. _This close._

“Let’s make magic. Sharon.” Night-One-Douchebag’s-Friend (Bucky really needs to start investing time in names, even if they’ll all be indiscriminately picked off soon anyway) slides the card back into the envelope, his upper lip curling. “There’s a heart.”

The men closest to Dr. Strange—at least Bucky remembers that name, he’ll never forget that limo moment again—grab him by the shoulders, shaking him good naturedly and offering general congratulations. For his part, Bucky claps and smiles, only vaguely registering the vague air of disappointment; after all, every man in the room held hope of receiving the coveted first date before that envelope opened. It’s worse for Steve, he guesses—after all, he got the first impression rose, so it must sting to be immediately passed over that level of validation in favor of someone else with practically the same name. When he looks over, however, Steve seems genuinely happy for the other man.

“Well, I guess I’d better get ready for my date,” says Stephen Strange, doing his best to look excited and ready for his date, which is to say he smiles and grimaces before beating such a hasty retreat with his producer that he might already be performing magic.

“Uh...so...”

“You can _go now.”_

“Right, thanks, just checking.” The contestant slinks off, shame-faced, in the general direction of the bathroom as the contestants generally begin clumping up into groups. A few cameramen follow men out to their bedrooms as producers begin queuing and prepping contestants for ITMs—presumably about the burning jealousy they’re feeling about a girl they just met dating a dude they barely know, which _Jesus fuck,_ might actually not be a joke—but Bucky manages to pull aside Pepper before she makes her way over to Wade. It’s probably for her sake, anyway, considering the man’s currently conducting some sort of convoluted (and, if the facial expressions are anything to go by, suitably disgusting) demonstration involving avocadoes.

“Hey, so assuming I wanna wait for the ITM line to slim down before I go in, what else is there for us to do right now?”

Pepper blinks like she doesn’t understand the question. “Talk with the guys?”

“Okay, but assume I _don’t_ want to set myself up for failure in future episodes.”

“What? You? With your potty mouth? Say it ain’t so.”

“I’m serious, Pepper.” He can turn it on, sure, but it sucks being on _all the time._ It says something about things, probably, that he’s already sick of communicating with other people when he spent the last four hours being uncooperative, the twelve hours before that sleeping, and the twenty-four hours before _that_ trapped in a hotel room. “Where’s the TV around here? I could always watch some more Food Network.”

“...Barnes, there’s no TV.” Pepper shakes her head and makes another attempt to get to Wade, who’s now enthusiastically fingering one of his avocados in what can only be described as a simulation of fruit sex. The things people do, honestly. “And before you ask about computers, there’s none of that either.” She suddenly stops short, squinting at him critically. “You didn’t bring one, did you? We expressly told you not to pack any.”

“No, no, ‘course not.” Sadly, his computer didn’t make it into either of the _two suitcases_ he was allowed to pack, not with his...well, not with the _payload._ “I just assumed you’d have it for us—PG channels only, restricted internet access, no pornography or whatever.” Not that that’s really up for consideration, Bucky’s relatively sure most of these men would _die_ before jacking off in a computer room where twenty other men and/or cameras and/or producers extolling the virtue of harem monogamy could walk in at any second. Then it hits him. “Wait, are you telling me there’s no electronics here _at all?!”_

“No electronics, or books, or magazines, and you’ll _keep it that way,_ Barnes, because you’re also not allowed to leave the house.” Pepper makes one last attempt to get to Wade, realizes that he’s now bumping the fat ends of the avocadoes together enthusiastically, and decides against it. “Don’t look so surprised, Bucky. This _was_ all in the contract.”

“Well, yeah, because I thought you were gonna give us something to do!”

“Think about how you’re gonna progress in this competition, prepare for filming, talk to the other contestants.” Pepper grins, shark-like. “Three things for you to do.”

“Sure, Jan.” Well, fuck that. Fuck _all_ of that, she’s not winning this one—Bucky might not preserve his sanity but he’ll have his _dignity,_ god damn it. “How about I just go make myself breakfast and contemplate the heat death of the universe alone on a lounge chair?”

“Well, considering we have breakfast set up for you and people are still filming in the cabana by the pool, I’d contemplate doing something else instead.” Pepper begins ticking off fingers. “Like thinking about how you’re gonna progress in this competition, or preparing for filming, or talking to the other contestants...”

“You’re good at your job.”

“Thank you.”

“I hate you.”

“I try.”

“Well, as long as we’re on the same page.” Bucky turns, tossing his hair dramatically and eyeing the rest of his competitors. There’s Night-One-Douchebag talking with his friend—thank you, next—on the opposite side of the room from Wade, who’s still simulating what can only be described as avocado sex to a horrified crowd of listeners—thank you, next—and Steve on the couch, smiling and nodding as Thor says something enthusiastically. Bucky sees the moment the switch flips in Pepper’s brain as she purses her lips, and lets her get all of two steps in before inserting himself smoothly into the conversation by hopping right back onto his couch leg.

“Hey, Steve, Thor.” He smiles at his most obnoxiously ingratiating level, his dimples on full display as Pepper glares. Please, like Bucky hasn’t pulled this move enough times on intoxicated bar assholes to _not_ play the part. “Wanna track down Scott and go grab breakfast?”

Pepper smothers a smile and shakes a fist at him as he leaves. At least he can still win battles, even if he loses the war.

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W2D1_K_C20_QS.mxf**

_[There’s a sizable crowd of men gathered around the kitchen island, which is filled with a colorful arrangement of fruit and pastries. Notable among them is a full pineapple and watermelon. One man raises his Bloody Mary; the men around him either holding the orange juice, water, or more of the same. Steve elbows Bucky by the table.]_

“There are three types of people in the world.”

_[Bucky smiles.]_

“You’d say that, as a Water guy.”

“Shut up, Orange Juice.”

_[T’Challa elbows them, and they fall silent. The contestant clears his throat.]_

“We’re all really fortunate to have this opportunity to know Sharon. To being the twenty luckiest guys in the world!”

_[The guys all chorus back.]_

“HEAR, HEAR!”

_[A few guys drink before immediately dashing off again. Some men fall on the food, piling it up on their plates and taking it to the counter or the dining room. Before long, only a handful of men are left.]_

“Do you think they’ve got any ingredients in here for us to make stuff?”

“Uh...probably not, why?” _[Bucky walks over to Steve, taking a sip of orange juice. He pulls a face at it before his face abruptly lights up.]_ “You know what they _do_ have, probably? Champagne. Lots and lots of champagne. I could make this a mimosa.” _[He takes on a wicked grin as his eyes flick over to the overstocked alcohol cabinet.]_ “I could make this a tequila sunrise. Steve. I could make this a _screwdriver.”_

“Bucky, you’re not drinking alcohol for breakfast.”

“Steve, we’ve been filming for hours. It’s technically three in the afternoon.” _[Bucky rolls his eyes, switching out the corked champagne in his hand for vodka. He generously tops off his glass.]_ “I bet you wouldn’t be saying this if I made a Brooklyn cocktail.”

“That’s not even _orange juice_ anymore.”

“A Bronx, then.” _[Bucky sips at his drink and nods to himself, raising his glass toward Thor as the man passes by him and exits the room.]_ “Mm. What are you looking for, anyway?”

“I wanna make cinnamon waffles.” _[Steve switches over to the fridge before slamming it closed with a frown.]_ “Nothing. The only ingredient I need that they have is _eggs.”_ _[He sets aforementioned eggs on the counter morosely.]_

“Cinnamon waffles.” _[Bucky pulls a face.]_ “Ew.”

_[Steve turns to him incredulously.]_

“...What? I think they’re disgusting!”

“Well, you’re in luck, then, because it looks like I won’t get to make them.” _[Steve sighs.]_ “Why wouldn’t they have stuff to let us make breakfast? We’re basically bumming around when we’re not stirring up drama, you think they’d put us to work making ourselves food instead of spending extra to order in.”

“Well, at least now we have nothing to do but think about how we’re gonna progress in the competition, prepare for filming, or talk to other contestants.” _[Bucky takes a slow gulp of his screwdriver , lost in thought.]_ “...So that we have nothing to do but think about and obsess over Sharon.” _[He laughs softly, almost startled.]_ “Fuck, they’re _good.”_

“Fuck that noise. I’m making eggs.” _[Steve bends over at the waist, rummaging in a lower cabinet. Wade wolf whistles from the other side of the kitchen, and Bucky laughs.]_ “Where the hell’s a pan…?”

“What do you need a pan for? Stir it into a cup, throw in some salt, toss it in the microwave for ninety seconds.”

_[Steve pops up from behind the counter suddenly with an incredulous look. Bucky raises an eyebrow.]_

“...I’m sorry, did you just say _microwave?!”_

“You know, Alton Brown warns me about people like you on ‘Cutthroat Kitchen’. It’s a _microwave,_ Steve. Don’t hate.” _[Bucky narrows his eyes.]_ “It cooks eggs perfectly fine, and it’s fast and easy in the morning—”

“Well, so’s a scramble, if you do it properly.” _[Steve shuts the cabinet, wielding his pan like a sword as he brandishes it toward Bucky.]_ “Jesus, Buck, don’t you at least throw some milk in? Some pepper?”

“Why would I—what does _milk_ have to do with _eggs?!”_

“Oh my God, and you say you watch the Food Network.” _[Steve shakes his head, deftly cracking an egg into a bowl as he cranks the heat on the stovetop up.]_ “You, sir, have clearly never had a properly cooked egg in your life—not if you’re eating ‘em out of the _microwave._ Allow me to enlighten you.”

“Yeah, why microwave eggs if you can microwave salmon, amirite, guys?” _[Wade slings an arm around Steve’s shoulders briefly, patting him consolingly even as Steve’s face takes on a horrified look before strolling out of the room. Bucky and Steve both watch him go, speechless.]_

“...See, this is why you don’t microwave things.”

“I microwave eggs, not _salmon,_ I have my limits.”

“Yeah, and that’ll be you in ten years. Think of what Sharon’ll say _then.”_

“Sharon will have married me for more than my eggs, if that’s what you’re implying here.” _[Bucky shakes his head, raising his voice to catch the attention of the stragglers on the other side of the room.]_ “Hey, you guys want any eggs? Any way you want ‘em done?”

_[The men mostly nod, calling out orders for scrambled and sunny-side up. One man tentatively asks for his poached, and Bucky makes a face, but Steve merely waves a fork.]_

“Sure thing.” _[He lowers his voice again.]_ “D’ya think you could look around for a slotted spoon?”

“You don’t have to go to the trouble, y’know.” _[Bucky smiles fondly as he yanks open a drawer, setting his drink aside.]_ “Guess that’s what makes you house dad, though. Always feeding us.”

“I am _not_ house dad.”

“Thanks, dad.” _[Scott waves absentmindedly as he goes to grab more fruit. Bucky hides his laughter in his cup as Steve takes on a pained expression even as he puts on a pot of water for poaching.]_

“...I am _not_ house dad.”

“Yet here you are, making breakfast for seven other men.” _[Bucky hops up on the counter and turns his head to the side briefly, picking his screwdriver back up and frowning as he lifts the lid off one of the many glass jars lined up neatly on the counter behind him.]_ “...Why the fuck is there so much candy here? Jesus.”

“Huh.” _[Steve glances over as he gently stirs the eggs.]_ “Seems counter-intuitive, if they want us all to look like Instagram models.”

“...Yeah, I’m gonna need you to check me every five minutes and slap me if I’m eating Skittles.” _[Even as he says this, Bucky sneaks a handful out and pops a red cheerfully into his mouth.]_ “To shut us up, probably?”

“This place just gets weirder and weirder.” _[Steve offers his pan up to Bucky.]_ “Here. Scrambled eggs, sans microwave. Eat up.”

“Yes, _mom.” [Bucky leans over to grab a plate, rolling his eyes at Steve’s scandalized gasp.]_ “Sorry, sorry. I mean yes, _dad.”_

“I am _younger_ than you.”

“...And yet, you make better eggs.” _[Bucky sighs, shoving another forkful into his mouth.]_

“Why, James Buchanan Barnes, are you conceding defeat?”

“Shut the fuck up. And yes.” _[There’s a few moments of silent chewing as Steve pours in more eggs.]_ “Y’know, all I can think about right now is that if I were at home, I’d be watching reality TV while I eat this.” _[Bucky sighs mournfully, lifting his screwdriver.]_ “I miss Netflix.”

“Buddy, I hate to break it to you, but we _are_ reality TV now.”

“...Oh my _God.”_

* * *

By the end of the night, it’s almost like Bucky’s living a normal life—the shower water is still miraculously warm despite the twelve previous men using it, his multiple bottles of haircare have miraculously made it to the mansion entirely intact, and stepping on the bathmat of the house is like stepping on a lamb. Bucky stops to wipe the steam off the mirror with a hand, taking a step back and examining himself as he massages the fingers of his right hand gently into his scalp. He frowns at his own reflection; he looks fine, same as ever, but it’s kinda hard to keep self-esteem high in a house full of men who might as well be male models. Male models who are tech moguls and neurosurgeons, to boot—he hasn’t been this insecure about being a ‘glorified mechanic’ for a long while, not when he owns a reputable small business in a very busy city. Still, when you’re competing with the best of the best…

And wow, way to remind himself that he’s here, in this fucked up alternate dimension. He yanks a bathrobe over his boxers, brushes his teeth, and right when he’s reaching for his leave-in conditioner and humming _Baby Got Back,_ someone finds the fucking _date card._

“Brock,” Bucky reads, probably because he’s currently pretty shirtless and the only piece of clothing camera-suitable in the bathroom was a pair of low-rise jeans. If he does say so himself, his ass looks fantastic right now. Probably. “Peter. Bruce. Logan. Wade. Luke. Thor _and_ Loki.” Someone’s going to die. “Bucky.” _He’s_ going to die. “Steve, Matt, Cameron O. Frank, and...Cameron K.” Fourteen of them total. He flips over the card, bracing himself. “...Let’s bare our souls. Sharon.” Sans heart. Thankfully. Bucky grins, more excited than he’ll admit to get to know the girl he’s technically dating. So the cynic hasn’t been entirely burned out of him yet, sue him. “What do you think it could mean?”

“Bare our souls...maybe it’ll be a polygraph machine. Something to ascertain whether we’re truly here for the right reasons,” Thor says cheerfully. On the other side of the room, Loki curls his legs a little closer in.

“How is ‘bare’ spelled? Perhaps we’re hunting.”

“Nah, it’s B-A-R-E.” Bucky flips the card over, showing it off. He already has a few guesses. “It’s gotta be something embarrassing. Maybe karaoke.” Or maybe that stand-up comedy thing they made the contestants do a few years back. Boy, has Bucky got material for that.

Everyone’s thinking ‘physical nudity’, of course, but no one’s willing to say it and make it a reality.

“Maybe it’ll be a photo shoot for Playgirl.”

Except Wade. Thank you, Wade.

“Well, they’ve _done_ photo shoots before for episodes...a lot…” Steve leans forward slowly, cupping his hands over his face as he trails off, mortified. Clearly it’s only just sinking in, that sweet summer child. “But hopefully it doesn’t come to that.”

“Sharon could be planning anything,” Bucky chimes in helpfully, like he thinks _Sharon_ is actually the one planning all of this. Steve mouths a _thank you_ through his fingers as a few cameras swivel off of him. Let it never be said he does nothing for his friends. “Whatever it is, we should be ready to—“

The door creaks open behind him. Thank goodness, really, because Bucky’s not entirely sure where he was going with that sentence.

“Stephen!” The men are crowding around him in a heartbeat, calling out cheerfully as they pull him into one-armed hugs. Almost everyone tactfully ignores the rose attached to his lapel, although a few men rib him good-naturedly if not awkwardly for it. Fine, if no one else will say it, he’ll say it.

“So, what was the date like?” Bucky calls out over the din. Everyone abruptly quiets down, of course; after all, no one’s buddying up to the man to talk about anything else. “What did you and Sharon do?”

“It was amazing, naturally.” Stephen (Dr. Strange?) hesitates, eyes darting so he doesn’t have to meet Bucky’s eyes. “I actually met Sharon in front of—”

“That’s enough out of you.” In the time it takes to blink, Pepper’s somehow squeezed her way through the throng of men and slipped her arm through Stephen’s. In another blink, she’s got him halfway through another door. “If you talk about it for the first time now, you can’t talk about it for the first time on camera, now can you? We can schedule a Man Chat about it tomorrow.”

“Oh, right, _Man Chats.”_ Yeah, Bucky laughs. “Where we sit in 100% casual, non-scripted open circles and talk about 100% casual, non-scripted drama with our 100% casual, non-scripted feelings. Like _men,_ dammit.”

Steve coughs innocently behind him.

“Go to bed, Bucky,” Pepper calls back to him. She stops, turning to look him up and down properly. “And put on a damn shirt. Don’t you have a group date bright and early tomorrow?”

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W2D1_HW4_C50_MC.mxf**

_[The hallway being filmed is currently empty, save for the occasional crew member bustling around to clean things up before turning in. At the end of the hallway, the door is open, revealing part of a bedroom with blue walls; Steve can be seen rummaging through his luggage frantically. Bucky enters the field of view, toiletries tucked under his right arm. He enters the bedroom, tosses his belongings somewhere off screen, and flops onto the bed dramatically. Only his feet can be seen through the doorway.]_

“Well, somewhere between putting away the date card and getting back to bathroom, everyone and their mother decided it was time to take a shower.” _[Bucky sits up again, sighing.]_ “I guess I’m just glad they let me in to get my stuff. Two seconds later and I would’ve caught Wade using my detangler on his pubes.”

“Pfft. If he didn’t have the foresight to pack pube detangler on his own, it’s his fault.” _[Steve turns, more than a little frazzled, and holds up two plaid button-downs that are differentiable only by color scheme.]_ “Hey, which one works better for the ‘generally casual’ dress code we’ve got?”

“Hm, let’s see.” _[Bucky stands, yanking the two shirts out of Steve’s hands. He holds them both up next to Steve for a second before tossing one back into Steve’s suitcase and slinging the other over his shoulder.]_ “I’ll take this one, it’ll go nicely with my leather jacket. You should burn the other.”

“Hey!”

“Seriously, just wear one of those ultra-tight T-shirts with a pair of jeans.” _[He hangs the stolen shirt on the end of his bedpost, then turns back to Steve’s suitcase.]_ “Actually, I take that back. Wear the one with the V-neck. No, that one.” _[He squints.]_ “That’ll show off your abs, right?”

_“Hey!”_

“Listen, you didn’t want to do your limo entrance shirtless, so this is how we’re working it in. Hold it up.” _[Bucky takes a step back, closing one eye and holding out his fingers as if framing Steve in a snapshot. Steve rolls his eyes and obliges.]_ “...Yeah, just bring along the blue sweater when it gets cold at night and you’ll be fine. Accessories would just clash with your whole vibe.” _[He disappears further into the room, presumably to rummage through his own luggage.]_ “You know who I bet has good accessories? _Loki._ Loki and Thor. D’ya think they’d lend me something if I asked nicely?”

“I think Loki would lend you something if you asked Thor meanly.” _[Steve smiles.]_ “You gonna head to bed?”

“I would, if _someone_ didn’t steal my spot in the bathroom.” _[Bucky reappears, arms crossed with a scowl.]_ “Or rather, eight someones. At least _you_ don’t require basic hygiene."

“I’m a morning shower person. Weren’t you done, anyway?”

“Not with the leave-in conditioner, I wasn’t. Don’t give me that look, we’re seeing Sharon _tomorrow._ Everything helps.”

“What’s stopping you from doing it here?”

“I dunno, the fact that the closest thing I’ve got to a mirror is the decorative plate with the kittens on it?” _[Bucky shrugs.]_ “I gotta make sure it’s evenly spread and comb it through, and it’s kinda hard for me to tell if I’ve done it properly without checking for globs.”

“You could just feel for it.”

“...No, I really couldn’t.” _[Bucky’s back is turned to the camera, but his left hand twitches almost imperceptibly. Within a few more moments, however, he’s running both hands over his hair.]_ “Shit, I’ve gotta finish this up before my hair dries all the way, too—”

“I can do it.”

_[Almost immediately, the line of Bucky’s shoulders jumps.]_

“I don’t need your help.”

“Cool. You have it anyways.” _[Steve strides past him and pulls out a few of Bucky’s bottles, squinting at the labels until finding the right one. Bucky turns to follow his movements, expression still guarded.]_ “Just like I have your fashion advice, and you have my shirt, and I have one cut-off-your-conversation-free card, and we both have each other so we don’t fight Brock or start creating signal fires or run for the hills of California to become hermits or all three.”

“Fight who?”

“Night-One-Douchebag.”

 _[Bucky eyes him suspiciously for a second longer, then relaxes.]_ “I _really_ wanna fight Night-One-Douchebag.”

“I know, Buck. I know.” _[Steve clambers onto Bucky’s bunk bed, crawling out of view.]_ “C’mon, sit. Really, how badly can I mess this up?”

“Famous last words, fucker.” _[Bucky darts over and snags a wide-tooth comb, then clambers up and sits so his back is facing Steve.]_ “Ends and middle only. Don’t touch my roots, Rogers; I can kill you with this comb in twenty different ways.”

“I’m sure.” _[There’s a moment of peace as Steve runs his fingers over Bucky’s scalp and forehead, gathering his hair back. Bucky leans forward and grabs a few pairs of socks from Steve’s luggage, holding them up next to the shirt he’s picked out.]_ “How long does this usually take on your own?”

“Too long, honestly. My vanity is my hubris.” _[Bucky rolls his eyes, tossing the socks back and eyeing Steve’s shoes critically.]_ “God as my witness, I’m chopping it all off when I get back to Brooklyn. If you visit me and you still can’t see my ears, you have permission to kidnap me and dump me on the doorstep of a Supercuts. I’ll write up a contract before we leave and everything.”

“You? Supercuts?”

“Yeah, that’s why it’s a _punishment.”_ _[Bucky slaps the back of Steve’s hand smartly with the flat end of his comb when his fingers get too close to his scalp.]_ “Although this, too, is punishment. God as my witness, if I had _known_ it was gonna be like this I would’ve chopped it all off _before_ I came here.”

“I don’t know, I think you look good with long hair. Besides, they wouldn’t have let you.” _[Steve hums, pausing to put more product on his hands. Bucky tilts his head quizzically, and Steve answers without looking.]_ “Between sending in my audition tape and getting called back, I kinda grew a beard.”

“A beard?” _[Bucky’s eyes flick as far left as possible, but he keeps his head still.]_ “What kind?”

“Um...” _[Steve makes a gesture around his face, not that Bucky can see it.]_ “Less intense than Logan, more intense than Stephen.” _[Bucky makes no move to respond, so Steve sighs.]_ “Between Not-Lumberjack and Dr. Strange.”

“I know who Stephen is.” _[Bucky mumbles, a little ashamed. He takes on a pensive expression.]_ “What happened to this beard, then?”

“They told me to shave it during callbacks because they liked the look on my audition tape.” _[Steve shakes his head, sighing morosely.]_ “Shame. It took me about a month to grow it out, and honestly, I liked having it. I’ll probably try it again when I get back.”

“Huh.” _[It’s quiet for a second.]_ “You know, I can’t really picture it.”

“And I can’t really picture _you_ without your hair. Speaking of which, all done.” _[Steve hops off the bed, putting the bottle back in with Bucky’s luggage. Bucky gingerly begins feeling his hair with his right hand.]_

“Not bad. Thanks.”

“You don’t have to sound so surprised.” _[Steve freezes as Bucky begins running his comb carefully through his hair.]_ “...Shit.”

“Something wrong?”

“I’m gonna have to get in line for the bathroom, aren’t I? To wash this off my hands.”

“There’s a sink in the kitchen.”

“...God bless you.”

“No hand soap, though. You can take mine, seeing as it’s lying out and all.”

“I’ve got my own, I don’t need yours.” _[Steve rolls his eyes and spends a few minutes digging through his luggage before he heads out into the hallway, walking towards the camera. Bucky calls absentmindedly after him just as he turns out of view.]_

“You’ve got it anyways.” _[He mumbles to himself, lips turning up into a wry smile.]_ “Hypocrite.”

* * *

**ITM: Steve Rogers**

_“Are you excited for tomorrow’s date?”_

* * *

**ITM: Brock Rumlow**

“Of course, I’m excited to go on this date and see Sharon. I just think I should’ve gotten the one-on-one, you know?” _[He shrugs.]_ “I mean, I don’t know what Stephen and Sharon did—oh.” _[Brock readjusts himself with a sigh.]_ “I mean, I don’t know what Stephen and Sharon are doing out there together, but I bet she’d be having a lot more fun with me. Stephen’s kind of uptight, if you get what I mean.”

* * *

**ITM: Stephen Strange**

_“How are you enjoying your one-on-one?”_

“This date...defies all description.” _[He pauses, leaning forward to listen to someone mumble off-screen before his expression abruptly darkens.]_ “Well, if you _need_ me to describe it, it was pretty off-putting being constantly recorded, but I’m not supposed to say that, am I?”

* * *

“I’m telling you, it’s _overkill_ is what it is. When’s the last time you drank to something or said a toast and it _wasn’t_ at a wedding or a baby shower or a funeral—”

“No one toasts funerals. Besides, it’s probably just because you don’t have enough friends to throw giant events on the regular—”

“Rude, and also, ignoring you.” That’s fair. Besides, it’s not like Bucky’s throwing giant events on the regular these days either, and he can’t remember anyone doing anything as elegant as toasting at his adolescent frat parties. “Like...once, night one, when we’re in the limo. That’s fine. A second time, at the start of the night? Why not. A third time at the _end_ of the night? Sure, it’s the end of a twelve-hour torture marathon, that warrants celebration. A fourth time the morning we move in? We’ve already seen the house, god damn it. A _fifth_ time today, on the limo ride over to the _group_ date?! They’re either trying to get us drunk, trying to drive us insane, or trying to accomplish both at the same— _oh._ Oh _no.”_

Bucky nearly bumps into the back of the person in front of him as he looks around, trying to follow Steve’s sight line to whatever the ‘oh no’ is. They’re in a dark room that seems a little like a bar, with multiple sofas and sets of seats facing toward a central stage. It seems like the group date’s gonna be public humiliation, but that’s not really much of a surprise, date card considered. “Oh no what?”

“We’re on _this_ group date.” Steve makes a face, murmuring under his breath as Sharon turns from where she’s at the front of the gaggle of guys and begins expositing energetically.

“...What group date?”

“The empty crowd. The stage. This is the public participation one, where we’ve gotta...I don’t know, mud-wrestle or strip or sing ad-libbed romantically-themed mariachi music in front of a live audience because the media conglomerate wants to monetize our suffering and convince us that _this_ is the proper way to build a relationship.” Steve huffs, crossing his arms. “At least with the shirtless photo-shoots, it was just the contestants and the cameramen.”

Mud-wrestling. Stripping. _Mariachi music._ “Stop trolling me, you goddamn punk.” Bucky presses his lips together tightly, trying to look like he’s paying attention. “You’re gonna get us both in trouble.”

 _“Punk?”_ An elbow digs into his side. _Ow._ Steve has unfairly pointy elbows. “I am literally _this_ much wider than you and _this_ much taller than you, punk. And I’m not trolling you, but far be it from me to try to warn you about your impending doom.”

Bucky opens his mouth, ready to retort sassily (something about doom, no doubt), but then all the spotlights in the room suddenly turn on and swivel onto the stage at once. Strobe lights come on. Terrible, _terrible_ electronic dance music starts playing.

And then six men get on stage. Wearing suspenders. Over _nothing._

Oh. Oh _no._

“...Oh my God,” says Bucky, as a man tears off his velcro pants and flings it toward them. “You were _serious.”_

“...Oh my God,” says Steve, as he actively catches the velcro pants in his own two hands. _“What the fuck.”_

“Steve.” The men on stage are now humping either the floor or two sudden chairs that have miraculously appeared on stage, and all Bucky can do is stare at their abs and wonder why they’re so fucking _shiny._ “Steve, you predicted this, what do you mean ‘what’. You’re not allowed to be surprised by this.”

“I was _joking!”_ Steve is shouting over the music now, which is getting increasingly louder and also is starting to just repeat vaguely sexual words over and over to the rhythm of the thumping bass. He looks down, seemingly just registering the tear-away pants he somehow managed to catch, and flings them at Bucky; Bucky neatly sidesteps, letting them smack Quill clean across the face. “Shit, fuck, _shit,_ I can’t be on this date! I can’t dance! I put it on my _application_ that I can’t dance! Why the fuck would they _put me on this date?!”_

“...You fucking _idiot!”_ Bucky reaches over, rips the velcro off Quill’s face, and uses it to slap Steve in the chest because Steve is a fucking _idiot._ “What the _fuck_ do you think the application is for?! To help cater the show to your interests and determine if you’ll be a good match with the Bachelorette?”

“...Yes?”

“Dwight, you ignorant _slut!”_ Bucky rips the velcro away from where it’s sticking to Steve’s sweater, just so he can slap him with the plastic again. “Shame! Drama! Public humiliation! This isn’t ‘The Amazing Race’, Steve, we aren’t _children._ We don’t _tell the truth_ in this house!”

“I do!”

“Yeah, and that’s why you’re _stripping on national television!”_

Okay, yes, maybe Bucky is projecting just the tiniest bit. And also deflecting, so he doesn’t focus on the stripshow and end up with a _really_ inopportune boner.

“I’m not doing it,” mutters Steve. From in front of them, Bucky can already hear the murmurs of dissent among the men; it’s obvious, even with the loud music and even louder display of blatant sexual nudity, that Steve’s is not an unpopular opinion to have at the moment. “I _can’t_ do it, I’m just—where’s the—”

“No.” Bucky grabs Steve’s face in both hands, bringing him in close enough that he can smell the truly disgusting cinnamon waffles he got from Pepper and ate for breakfast this morning. “You listen to me, Rogers. We have gotten _this far,_ damn it. We have slept in beds meant for middle schoolers in summer camps. We have feigned amnesia and temporal unawareness for the suspended disbelief of middle-aged American housewives. We have _seen Wade Wilson’s nutsack.”_ He shakes him a little for emphasis. “We. Are going. To _dance.”_

“I don’t dance,” says Steve.

“I say you can,” says Bucky.

 _“Not a chance,_ Buck.”

Bucky tries. He tries _really hard._ For a second he sees his life stretch before him, the somber life of dignified responsibility and moral success he can take if he just _doesn’t make the reference—_

“If I could do this, well, you could do that, but _I—don’t—dance—”_

“—What the—wait—”

“Hit it out of the park!” Wade contributes helpfully from the side.

“...You just referenced ‘High School Musical’ to me.” Steve buries his head in his hands as the music fades and the bar lights go back up. “You just _twisted my words_ into a ‘High School Musical’ reference. A ‘High School Musical _Two_ ’ reference. I don’t believe this. This _literally_ doesn’t get any worse.”

“We’re gonna expose you gentlemen to the fine art of male exotic dancing,” says the stern-faced man who standing next to Sharon who introduces himself to them as Chester Phillips, the owner and proprietor of this club. Steve shakes his head and mutters darkly about how Chester Phillips is out here deliberately trying to prove him wrong, but if anything Bucky figures the man deserves credit for not emphasizing the word _expose,_ if nothing else.

“We’ll be splitting you into groups of four or five, and you’ll be performing in front of a live audience by the end of the day,” Sharon says with a slightly sheepish smile. At least she’s self-aware enough not to just be excited about the entire thing. “All the money we make will go directly to charity. I want you guys to have fun with this—no judgement, no competition or anything. Let’s get you up on that stage and judge the talent!”

The _talent._ Bucky looks around him, at Steve’s abs and Thor’s abs and Logan’s abs and _all the fucking jacked-up abs around him._ It’s like living a nightmare. And that’s coming from someone who _can_ dance.

* * *

**ITM: Steve Rogers**

“I don’t dance.”

* * *

**ITM: Peter Quill**

“...Are we doing what _they’re_ doing?”

* * *

**ITM: Bruce Banner**

“If I have to get in a man thong, go on stage, get naked in front of a room of women I don’t know, and get them to shove money into my underwear, that’s just gonna...” _[He swallows, brow furrowing as he searches for words.]_ “...that’s just gonna... _suck.”_

* * *

**ITM: Wade Wilson**

“I’m ready to get down and dirty.” _[He smiles inappropriately gleefully.]_ “And flash my nuts on national television.”

* * *

**ITM: James “Bucky” Barnes**

_[Bucky smiles mischievously, clicking his tongue and winking as he shoots finger guns at the camera.]_

* * *

They shoved him in a room with multiple floor-length mirrors, put on one of the songs straight from his ‘Stop Interrupting my Grinding’ Spotify playlist, and gave him a male stripper who helped him perfect his already-legendary twerking technique.

Honestly? Bucky is kinda _living_ for this.

“I’m _dying,”_ Steve hisses out of the corner of his mouth, side-eyeing a few men warily out of the corner of his eye as they shove bundled-up towels down their two-toned underwear. They’re a few hours out from the performance now, and they’re waiting to get the rest of their costumes; off to the side, Loki’s standing stiff as a board while some poor (lucky?) lady generously applies spray tan. Steve and Bucky are standing by the empty clothing racks, standing around shirtless with sweatpants—or at least, _Bucky’s_ standing. Steve’s vibrating in place, eyes unfocused as he mimics dance moves with his hands. “It’s four counts to march in, suspenders off the shoulders, then the tank-top off over the head—throw, that weird...push-up ground humping thing, gyrate a bit, walk to the front and let them shove money down the pants while twerking in their faces—”

“Alright, time for me to lube up.” Bucky checks the clock on the wall—yep, the spray tan should be good. “Can you pass me some?”

“—return to the stage, turn your back on the audience, drop the pants—”

“Christ Almighty, Steve, stop stressing out and give me the baby oil already.”

“Am I allowed to I wear my own underwear?” Steve doesn’t seem to notice as Bucky slowly reaches over, fishes around into his pocket, and retrieves the tube of baby oil. “It’s weird that they’re _giving_ us underwear, right? That’s not just me, right?!”

“Just be thankful we’re not in the group that gets thongs,” Bucky mutters, slathering oil onto his chest. It’s not that he cares about taking off his shirt so much as he cares about taking off his shirt next to _Thor,_ who has a something-pack chest that Bucky hasn’t had the time to properly count but is definitely greater than six and less than twelve. “That shit rides up the crack like nobody’s business. I’m all for showing off my ass, my ass is great. But no one here needs to be looking _inside_ me.”

Steve looks like he’s ready to drown himself in the baby oil.

“Alright, intervention time.” Bucky contemplates getting them both to sit, as one does during a proper intervention, but the only free seats are currently occupied by producers and the ground is cement and probably cold as hell. “Is there anything I can do to help with your nerves? Is it just normal public display jitters or are you genuinely afraid you’re gonna mess up or what?”

“Honestly, I think it’s mostly just the idea that I could mess up in front of the live audience _and_ the cameras.” Steve twitches. “Because if I do, you _know_ they’re gonna make a big deal out of it.”

The sad thing is, Steve’s not wrong. Bucky has to think it over for a second, because there’s not much he _can_ do in the situation, other than—well. “Okay. First off, you’ve been going over this dance non-stop for the past, like, five hours. You’ve got it better than any of the rest of us, I guarantee it. Half of it is just general hip gyrating anyway, so worst case scenario just default over to that and you’ll be fine. It’s _stripping._ No one’s gonna know that you’re fucking up as long as you’re pretty.” And boy, is Steve _pretty._

“Okay, but what if—”

“Second off.” Bucky snaps the baby oil closed and taps the bottle threateningly against Steve’s lips before using it to gesture at the rest of his chest; Steve gets the memo, snags the bottle back, and begins squirting it into his hand. “Second off, I owe you one, right? So I’ll make you a deal.”

“What?”

“If you fuck up—and I’ll keep an eye out—I’ll immediately and purposefully fuck up much bigger on purpose.” Steve barks out a laugh at that, slightly stiff, so Bucky cracks a grin in return. “I’m serious! You slip on the floor, I’ll slip off the stage. If you shove your balls into some poor woman’s face by accident, I’ll turn around and do the exact same thing to Sharon.” Bucky wipes his greasy hands on his sweatpants. “And if you bend over at the wrong time and split your flimsy regulation underwear, I’ll let a camera look _all the way_ up my ass.”

“You’d do that for me?” Steve smirks.

“All the way up, buddy.” Bucky wrinkles his nose. “Please don’t go there, though. Not much makes me uncomfortable, but _that’d_ make me uncomfortable.”

Steve turns for a second to put the baby oil back on the makeup table before meeting Bucky’s gaze again, gazing at him for a few moments with an inscrutable expression. “...You’re serious. This stuff doesn’t bother you.”

“Well, no, not really. What of it?”

“Nothing, I’m just...surprised, I guess.” Steve shrugs. “I’m working myself into knots about it, it’s just kinda confusing or something to see you not care at all. How do you do it?”

“I mean...” Honestly, Bucky thinks he _should_ be more bothered, considering how generally pissed he’s been about the entire filming process thus far. When it comes down to it, though, all the other stuff—doing things because Pepper told him to and feigning stupidity about the whole competition process and pretending like he doesn’t _own a goddamn calendar—_ that stuff feels dishonest and a little like lying and a _lot_ like pretending both he and the average American viewer is dumber than they really are. This? “Look at us, Steve. We’re rubbing baby oil on ourselves. Look at _them.”_ He points over to the other side of the room, where another group is finally getting their costumes. “Do you see them? They’re cowboys. With _assless chaps.”_

Steve looks. “Oh, dear God. Please don’t let us have assless chaps.”

“I had a point here, I swear.” Mandatory break to admire some of the asses in the assless chaps. They _are_ a good-looking bunch, after all. “With everything else, it feels like we’ve been playing dumb. Like I keep telling Pepper, I’m a shitty actor, y’know? But this stuff is stupid on purpose. We all _know_ how dumb we look, and we’re all getting equally naked. Besides, dancing, showing off—that’s what I do to blow off steam.” That’s kind of what it comes down to, in the end. “This is my comfort zone, is all. Sharon said to have fun, and I’m very experienced in having this sort of fun.”

Steve gives him the side-eye for a full two minutes before he hears it back in his head.

“Not like that, Jesus!” Okay, maybe a little like that. Clint’s told him that his go-to fuck-me club jeans don’t leave much to the imagination. “Just—don’t take things too seriously, like I said. Dry-hump the floor. Find someone who’s willing to make it rain on your pretty blond head. Hold a cowboy hat over your crotch, secure in the knowledge that I will one-up you on any potentially embarrassing moments you find yourself in, okay?”

“You know, weirdly enough, that _does_ make me feel better.” Steve rubs at his chin, abruptly smiling. “But you know me—I stress and over-prepare. We need to walk through a couple of scenarios here, just so I know you’ve got my back.”

“Jesus, you’re a handful.” A pain in the ass, that’s what he is. A real fucking menace. Bucky’s only known him for three days, and he’ll kill anyone who tries to hurt him. “Alright, shoot. Rapid-fire, so you know how well I can improvise up there.”

“I...” Steve shakes his head slowly, thinking. “...slip off the stage while letting someone put money in my pants and end up accidentally shoving my butt into someone’s face.”

“That’s scenario _one?!”_

“What do you do?”

Fine, Bucky can play the game. “I slip off the stage the same way, except the other way around. Full face-sit, dick-first.”

“Classy. Let’s not practice that in person.” It takes him a second to come up with another one. “My suspenders get stuck in my tank-top.”

That’s not even _embarrassing,_ that’s an excuse not to get naked. “I’ll rip it off you. Better yet, you rip it off yourself. Everyone’s into gratuitous displays of strength.”

“I trip over my pants while I’m trying to walk somewhere.”

“I slide across the stage right in front of you.”

“I get stuck standing on top of a table while everyone’s moving back to the stage.”

“Bitch, please. I’ll outlast you on my table _and_ steal all the tips from yours.”

“Touché.” He’d better believe it. Bucky’s in a personal competition with Peter Quill right now to see who makes the most money, and his mothereffing pride is on the line. “I turn the wrong direction on the fourth beat and freeze up, so when everyone’s getting down to do the push-up...thing, my mouth is right next to your crotch.”

Finally, a tough one. The bastard was _saving_ this one, Bucky realizes as he takes in the smirk on his face—and it’s working, too, because Bucky’s got two seconds to come up with a solution and he doesn’t have one readily available. At least, he doesn’t _think_ he does—until Wade Wilson strolls by, tugging at the tassels on his assless chaps. Bucky nearly clotheslines him in his enthusiasm, slinging his arm around his shoulders and smiling cheekily. “I’ll grab Wade from offstage and start dry-humping him. Game over, no survivors.” He turns to Wade. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Only insofar as you’re 100% a bottom,” Wade snipes back without missing a beat.

Well. He’s not _wrong._ “Lies and slander. I am a bottom _75%_ of the time.” And the other 25% of the time, he’s been told he performs considerably well. “As long as you’re on board, you should probably stay near our side of the stage during our performance, then.”

“You say this like I wasn’t gonna be in the splash zone for _all_ of this.” Wade gestures vaguely at the giant parade of partially nude men around them. “Seriously, though, did I miss something? An impromptu performance? Orgy planning?”

“I’ve got a deal going on with Steve—if he does something embarrassing, I’m to take the heat off him in any way necessary.”

“Say no more. Worst case scenario, we’ll blind them with raw sex appeal. Your half-decent face and my ovary-melting charisma? No one will look at All-American Beef over here twice.” Wade shoots them a thumbs up walks away, presumably to go back to ripping a bigger hole in his pants and giving Pepper a heart attack.

“You’re bisexual?”

Huh. “I’m impressed. Most people just jump directly to gay without passing go.”

“We _are_ all here to date a woman.” Steve takes a look around, presumably so he can point her out while being as much of a sarcastic jerk as possible. “...Even if we only ever see her for five minutes at a time.”

“The plot thickens. Maybe she’s a lizard person after all.” It’s only after Bucky’s been handed a sheer black bathrobe by Peter Parker and started to tie it on that he thinks to bring it up. “Hey, that’s not gonna be a problem, is it?”

Steve has the audacity to look genuinely incredulous for two seconds before he remembers that the world is a dark, shitty place. Then he just looks ashamed, which is somehow _worse._ “No, of course not. Not in a million years.”

“Thank God.” And really, Bucky’s relieved. He doesn’t know what he’d do if Steve wasn’t the type of person he seems to be; three days, and he might just be the nicest (if also shit-eating) person Bucky’s ever met. “Because if it was, I’d feel a little uncomfortable asking you to pass me the lube again. I think my abs are getting dry.”

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W2D2_D_GDRR1_C10_QS.mxf**

_[Bucky, Loki, Steve, and Thor stand solemnly at attention as they listen to the man giving them instruction.]_

“You four will be the fire-fighters.”

_[Steve coughs.]_

“As you know, fire-fighters are one of the most popular female sexual fantasies.”

 _[Steve and Bucky meet eyes over Thor, who’s nodding morosely, before Bucky abruptly bursts into hysterical laughter. Steve turns away, hiding his face; Thor keeps nodding, although a slow grin’s starting to spread. Loki just looks into the camera like he’s in_ The Office.]

“Hang on, Loki looked into the camera. We’ll have to do that again.”

“Nooooooo!”

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W2D2_D_GDMS_C40_MC1.mxf**

_[Tony and Sharon are on stage, addressing a cheering crowd of women.]_

“Thank you so much for coming out here today! As you all know, all the money the men make from this show will be collected and donated to charity via Bachelor Gives Back.”

_[Tony takes the microphone from a gracious Sharon.]_

“So if anyone out there wants to come up and make it rain today, you know exactly what to do! Now, who’s ready to see some half-naked men?”

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W2D2_D_GDBSL_C40_MC3.mxf**

_[Bucky and Steve are backstage, each wearing a fake fireman’s hat, pants with suspenders, and a flimsy white tank-top. Loud country music plays with too much bass somewhere in the background. Steve keeps peeking anxiously onto the stage, and Bucky notices.]_

“Is Cameron okay?”

_[Steve double-checks.]_

“Yeah, he looks like he’s starting to relax, he’s clapping along to the music and everything. Besides, everyone’s staring at Wade. Nothing says sexy like having to sit down and yank off your cowboy boots.”

“Good. He looked like he was ready to bolt before you talked him down.” _[Bucky crosses his arms as he leans against the wall, glancing at Steve as Steve glances at the stage.]_ “Speaking of which, are _you_ okay?”

“Yeah, I think I’ll be fine—hard to be nervous for yourself when you’ve been busy nervous for someone else. Just...remember our deal and let me walk through this dance again.” _[Steve closes his eyes as Bucky nods and yanks his hat lower over his head, but he doesn’t even have time to count to four before cheers ring out and the lights dim. The loudspeaker suddenly says, in a gravelly voice:]_

**_“This house is on fire. Somebody, call 911.”_ **

_[Steve’s eyes fly open. Bucky’s head jerks up so fast his neck cracks.]_

“Kill me. Do it. Murder me. _Immediately.”_

“Somebody, call 911.” _[Bucky whispers, mortified.]_ “Yes, hi, 911. I’d like to report a fucking _homicide.”_

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W2D2_D_GDMS_C80_MC1.mxf**

_[It’s the end of the day, and all fourteen men are dancing around the room in one final attempt to get money. A few men are crowded close around Sharon’s sofa; some men stay in the fringes, awkwardly moving their hips and holding their hands above their heads. On the left, a few women are enthusiastically shoving money down Steve’s yellow underwear; Steve grins and mock-salutes Bucky on the other side of the room, who blows him an exaggerated kiss and laughs wildly in return. In the foreground, Wade Wilson approaches the table where Tony’s sitting next to Pepper, dancing butt-first toward them. Pepper shouts to Tony over the music.]_

“NO.”

_[Tony says something that’s lost under the noise.]_

“ABSOLUTELY NOT.”

_[Wade stops in front of them. Tony pauses for all of two seconds before slapping his ass loud enough for the sound to be heard from the camera, then immediately stuffs a twenty into his pants.]_

* * *

**ITM: Sharon Carter**

“I gotta hand it to the guys, honestly. That could’ve been really uncomfortable, but they just...went out there and _got_ those _tips.”_ _[She grins devilishly, bending over as she laughs before straightening up again.]_ “I’m glad they all had fun with it, really. It was nice to see them helping each other out, and I’m looking forward to connecting with them more seriously tonight.”

* * *

**ITM: Steve Rogers**

“It was tough, but I ended up having a really good time with Sharon and the guys. I’m glad I took the chance to get out of my comfort zone—we helped out a good cause and had a surprising amount of fun doing it.” _[He smiles.]_ “All in all, a good day. It can only get better tonight.”

* * *

**ITM: Loki Laufeyson**

“That was hell on Earth. Take me to the producer who thought this was a good idea. I swear to you now, if you make me do something like this _ever_ again—”

* * *

“Bucky! Hey, Buck! Over here!”

It takes a minute for Bucky to properly identify that the giant row of hedges is, in fact, Steve. Thank goodness, too; Bucky’s not entirely sure why they didn’t just have the night portion of the group date in the mansion if they’re just in some _other_ overly fancy off-the-grid villa in LA, but he’s already somehow gotten lost between the bathroom and the main room with the other men.

“Yeah? What’s up?”

“Thought you’d wanna know: I just finished up with Sharon, so you should swoop in before she gets bored and her eyes start wandering.”

“Well...there _are_ fourteen of us.” Still, good looking out. “Wait a second. Does that mean I owe you _two_ get-out-of-jail-free cards?”

“Hey, you said it, not me.” Steve smiles, presumably still keyed up from the residual giddiness of his time with Sharon. Bucky’s not sure if Steve even realizes it himself, but he’s the definite frontrunner of the house; first impression rose aside, he’s definitely on the higher end of Sharon’s emotional investment scale. Not that he knows the man well enough to make any judgement calls or recognize patterns of behavior—from Steve’s occasional muttering, that seems better reserved for a ‘Natasha’ or a ‘Sam’—but if he had to guess from the almost self-conscious starry eyes he takes on, Steve’s infatuation runs deep, hard, and loyal in the most pure way possible.

If he had to guess, Steve’s already in ITM’s somewhere telling Pepper how he can ‘really see himself falling for her’, no matter how he commiserates about how terrible those lines are so early with Bucky out around the house. Barf. Sweet, but _ew._ Thank God he saves it for the camera.

“That good, huh?”

“Yeah, I...Sharon’s great, isn’t she?” Steve smiles sheepishly. “Wow, what a _weird_ thing to say to you...anyway, what gave it away?”

“The smiling, mostly. Might wanna tone it down before you get back to the rest of the guys, they might be less inclined to congratulate you.” And, if Brock (Night-One-Douchebag has earned a name, thanks to his general douchebaggery behavior while they’ve been waiting for their turn to talk to Sharon) is anything to go by, they would in fact be more inclined to challenge Steve to ritual combat. “Anyway, thanks for the tip.” He stands straighter, straightening the collar of the shirt he borrowed of Steve and jangling his stack of bracelets. “How do I look? Nice enough to steal your girl?”

“You look great, asshat.” Steve pats his shoulder and, on the way past him, drags a hand through his hair. Bucky yelps, too late to stop him, and hisses after his retreating back as Steve laughs.

“Saboteur!”

“What? Bad boys gotta look windswept, or Sharon’ll start questioning whether you really own a motorbike at all.” Steve turns a corner, smirking. “Good luck!”

It’s all fun and games until Bucky remembers that he’s got a tough act to follow. _Steve’s_ act to follow. Good luck, indeed. No big deal, Bucky. Just your second (first?) date with Sharon fucking Carter. One hand through the hair, take a deep breath, and...

“Hey, is this seat taken?”

Sharon’s sitting on a bench by the pool, surrounded by neatly manicured bushes; she turns to look at him, eyes widening as she brushes her hair out of her face and scoots over to pat the spot next to her. High ponytail, statement sweater, leather pants—Bucky’s first instinct is to point to his jacket and say ‘we match’. You know, like a _nerd._ Thankfully, he and his conversational filter are still on good terms.

“Not yet. Care to take it?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Bucky settles himself down, briefly regrets leaving his drink at the table with the other men, and focuses his eyes on her whilst blatantly ignoring the flurry of activity from the cameramen on the other side of the pool. “So, do I even need to ask how the date was?”

She laughs. Bless her. “None needed. I couldn’t even begin to tell you whose assets impressed me most today.” Sharon suddenly stops short, eyes widening almost comically. “Not that I—”

“Abs, Thor.” She gives an imperceptible nod when he reaches with an eyebrow raised in question, so Bucky snags her martini and takes a dainty sip. “Face, me. No question.”

She relaxes, almost startled, and laughs gratefully before plucking her glass out of his hand, raising it briefly to him, and taking a drink of her own. “Hard to argue with those cheekbones.” Bucky sends a silent _thank you_ to the powers that be for blessing him with said cheekbones as Sharon sets her drink carefully on the ground. “I suppose I should ask _you_ how the date was also—although, as you so succinctly put it, do I even need to?”

“Nah, not really.” Bucky smiles. “I had a lot of fun, and I’m sure it was pretty obvious”

“Between you and me, I’m glad.” Sharon stretches her legs out with a sigh, closing her eyes. It’s nice, Bucky thinks, to know that she can relax around him—he realizes he’s mirroring her, letting his own guard down a little. “I was nervous about how some of the men would take it, whether or not they’d feel pressured or uncomfortable. Even people like Bruce or Steve, who got around to it eventually, didn’t lean into it entirely.” She glances at him out of the corner of her eye lazily. “It was refreshing, to see you having so much fun with the crazy stuff you got roped into.”

“It’s just the way I am, I guess.” He’s never really thought about it too much. “Why not throw yourself into what’s happening around you? I’m not great at hiding what I think or pulling back, these days—which is a nightmare for editing, I’m sure, as much as it’s the reason I’m here to begin with.” And, since the shot is ruined already, he waggles his fingers at the camera; Sharon scoffs into her drink.

“Why _did_ you come here, Bucky?” Back to our regularly scheduled programming. He’s a little disappointed, honestly. “Don’t get me wrong—I’m glad you did. I was just wondering...”

“...because some of these guys have been ready to settle down since they graduated high school?”

“With _me,_ the way you’ll hear a few of them tell it.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” Bucky can practically _feel_ the eyes of the camera at his back, but what he said was true—he’s not about to lie, especially not if he wants a snowball’s chance in hell of actually creating a real relationship out of this. “Well...honestly, it’s not something I’ve put a ton of thought into. I know some people have been heading towards this decision for years and made finding a family their first priority—heck, you’d kinda _have_ to have, if you took months off work to come here.”

“But not you?”

“...Not quite like that, no.” Shit, he’s _so_ fucking this up. “Look, up until recently, I think I’d kinda managed to convince myself that long-term relationships aren’t worth it. In a very cynical, Holden-Caulfield sort of ‘emotional investment takes too long, all relationships end’ kind of way. I run my own business, I have great friends, I’m decently attractive—I didn’t really feel like anything was _missing_ or whatever.”

“Hm.” Sharon doesn’t say anything, instead choosing to nudge her foot casually against Bucky’s. It’s something a friend would do, and the contact’s comfortable—Bucky’s surprised at how comfortable everything is in general. “And something’s changed?”

“Well...” Well, he’s on the _Bachelorette._ If he can say this anywhere, he can say it here. “I don’t know if the romantic lay dormant in my heart or some sh—stuff, but just because I’m not missing it doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be nice to have it, you know?” Huh. Not as much like pulling teeth as he expected. Sharon’s looking at him, something in her smile that seems like it might even be _understanding._ “It’d be nice to wake up next to someone else, and curl up with someone else, and just generally...have that level of comfort and rely on someone else.”

“And make out with someone else?”

“Now _that_ I managed decently beforehand.” Thankfully, Sharon laughs with him. “But...yeah, that’s where I am. I might not have the same level of _woah, intensity_ that some of the other guys have out there. Honestly, I don’t know if I’m ready to dive headfirst into a marriage.” Cut, that’s a wrap, _shut the fuck up, Bucky, your conversational filter was doing so well._ “And I probably shouldn’t say that—I know a proposal’s kind of expected at the end of all of this, but I don’t want to lie to you. I _do_ know that I’m really ready for a serious relationship, though—small stuff like holding hands and stealing covers, big stuff like trusting each other with life choices. It’s been a pretty long time coming.”

“Shit, I feel you.” The cuss word out of Sharon—the bushes rustle ominously with the wrath of a far-off Pepper Potts—startles a laugh out of both of them, and Sharon takes the opportunity to lean her elbow on Bucky’s shoulder. “I don’t suppose you saw what happened last year on the Bachelor?”

“Would you hold it against me if I said ‘no’?”

“Well, I’d be a hypocrite if I did.” A girl after his own heart. If Bucky somehow shockingly _doesn’t_ end up defeating nineteen other dudes in a deathmatch for her heart, he sure as hell wants to be friends with her. “Anyway, when I came into my season, I was pretty career-oriented myself—my job until then didn’t really let me stay put long enough to develop a serious relationship, so when filming started I was only just starting to think about putting down roots.”

“...Wow.” He turns to look at her; she’s facing him eagerly, grin wide. “Don’t take this the wrong way— _please—_ but how the hell were you ready to get engaged to the guy three months later?”

“Well...” She bites her lip, seeming to think through a few things, before her gaze goes directly past Bucky into the cameras. She’s messing up the shot, he realizes—either that, or she doesn’t think it’ll air, or she doesn’t want it to air unless the fourth wall’s broken. “It’s easy to get a little carried away, on this show.”

She’s right. Even with this conversation, he’s surprised at how quickly he’s grown used to opening up about some pretty serious feelings—it’s like shooting the shit with Clint in the comfort of his own home, despite the cameras.

“Then again, being here—away from everything else in the real world—it’s a little like a bubble, but it’s also a good place to think and get in touch with what really matters, you know?” Sharon shifts slyly, pulling away. “Before you know it, _you’ll_ be the one ready to propose to me by the time this is all over.”

And doesn’t _that_ just beat all. Bucky laughs, leaning back into Sharon’s warmth. “If I do, trust me, you’ll be the first to know.”

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W2D2_E_GDMR_C79_MC1.mxf**

_[Thirteen men are sitting in the main room of the house, waiting for Sharon to come back from her conversation; a few men are clearly very close to falling asleep, and one is rather visibly drunk. The all become attentive when Sharon enters, followed closely by Brock, who looks quite smug. Cameron scoots over to make room, and Sharon sits and grabs the rose.]_

“Today’s been a really great day. I’ve had a wonderful time to getting to know all of you.” _[She smiles at the assembled men, looking at each in turn.]_ “I know the day date was a little insane, and I just wanna thank all of you for being a good sport and stepping up.” _[She bites her lip, eyes flitting back to the elephant in the room: the rose in her hand.]_ “Tonight, I’m going to give the rose to someone who really rose to the occasion—someone who was a good sport for the entire date and really put himself out there, who wasn’t afraid to be honest and connect with me.”

_[For a moment, everyone holds their breath.]_

“Bucky, will you accept this rose?”

* * *

**ITM: James “Bucky” Barnes**

“I’m really glad I got the rose tonight.” _[He smiles, more at ease than he’s been in quite a while.]_ “Sharon really surprised me—honestly, I didn’t think we’d get along so well so suddenly, but I like her.”

_[The producer mumbles something, and Bucky leans forward incredulously.]_

“I’m sorry, you want me to say _what?_ That I can see myself falling in love with her? ... _Marrying_ her?!”

_[The producer says something else. Bucky leans back, annoyance and skepticism apparent on his face.]_

“Look, it’s _far_ too soon to say that, and we haven’t spent nearly enough time together. I’m getting along with her and I can see myself getting _closer_ to her. Let’s leave it at that.”

* * *

**ITM: Brock Rumlow**

“Yeah, I’m disappointed that I didn’t get the rose.” _[There’s a muscle twitching in Brock’s jaw.]_ “I just feel like I have a lot more to offer Sharon than some of the other people here, and that we get along better. I _definitely_ know that I was a better dancer than _Bucky Barnes.”_

* * *

**ITM: Steve Rogers**

“Of course, I’m sad that I didn’t get the rose today. I thought I had a really good conversation with Sharon—I kinda just clicked with her, the same way I felt on night one, and we got to talk without being interrupted. Still, I understand that she’s gotta develop relationships with all the guys, and that I’m not the only person here.” _[He lowers his voice conspiratorially.]_ “Besides, she can’t give me the roses _every_ time, either way. I expect I won’t be getting one for a while.”

_“Alright, Steve, bring it back.”_

“Anyway, I’m not worried. There’s plenty of time, and for now I’m just looking forward to getting to know Sharon more.” _[Steve smiles.]_ “I came here to make a real connection.”

* * *

**ITM: Sharon Carter**

“Bucky’s a great guy. The reason I wanted to give him the rose today is because he’s just so easy to be around; I have a very comfortable connection with him, and there’s no pressure to go out of my way to impress him or act a certain way. He’s really kind, and, more than anything, very open and honest about who he is—it’s a positive influence around the house.” _[She smiles.]_ “I’m pretty sure everyone knows it, too.”

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W2D3_MR_C18_MC1.mxf**

“FUCK YOU, Barnes. I hope you rot in hell.”

_[There are about ten men sitting in a circle on the floor of the main room in the remarkably peaceful Bachelor mansion. James Rhodes glares at Bucky murderously before flicking the black card between his fingers at him in a quick, threatening motion. Bucky snags the card out of the air and adds it to the growing pile at his feet, unperturbed.]_

“Don’t hate the player, hate the game.”

“I hate _both.”_ _[Rhodey draws a white card into his hand.]_ “I’m _good_ at this game, damn it. I’ve played this game with _Tony Stark.”_

 _[Cameron K. looks up from his own cards, expression neutral.]_ “How many cards do you need to win, Bucky?”

“Let me see..” _[Bucky picks up his stack of black cards, flicking through them expertly quickly. The quiet murmur of background noise continues as producers, crew, and contestants occasionally flit in and out; however, with Sharon and T’Challa out on a one-on-one, most of the energy has been shifted out of the house.]_ “...Just one more.”

 _“Damn_ it!” _[Scott sighs.]_ “Well, at least that means you’re the judge now. You can’t win if you’re judging.”

“Watch me, motherfucker.”

“It’s _literally_ impossible, Buck.” _[Steve elbows Bucky from where he’s sitting next to him, hunched over his hand. Bucky prods him with his toe, and Steve sighs and passes Bucky a black card from the pile. Bucky turns it upward with a flourish.]_

“Oh, this one’s an all-time favorite.” _[He clears his throat before reading aloud.]_ “‘This is the prime of my life. I’m young, hot, and full of _blank.’” [He jerks the card aside with a grin.]_ “Pile ‘em up.”

_[It takes a minute before people spring into action.]_

“Oh. Oh boy. I’ve got this.”

“I’m just getting rid of this one.”

“We’re still missing someone...”

“Here you go.”

_[Eventually, a stack of white cards makes it to Bucky. He spreads them out, reading the highlights out and turning over the rejects.]_

“‘Fiery poops’, I pity you. Ditto ‘The Great Depression’. ‘Bees?’, always a classic. ‘Vigilante justice’ got a laugh out of me, I’ll admit it… ‘Poor life choices’? Way to call me out.”

“Okay, but who won?”

_[Bucky snorts, picking up a single white card and holding it alongside the black card. He pauses for dramatic effect.]_

“‘This is the prime of my life. I’m young, hot, and full of daddy issues.’” _[He lowers the cards again.]_ “True. Topical. Dark. Mildly sexual, if read that way. A perfect combination in every sense.” _[He lays the two cards together dramatically, sweeping the rest into a pile.]_

 _[Thor cackles.]_ “A worthy winner, indeed.”

“I can’t believe I wasted ‘Bees?’ only for you to pick ‘Daddy Issues’.” _[Quill sighs.]_ “Someone here knows Bucky too well.”

“Fair, I would’ve chosen that white card with virtually anything.” _[Bucky raises his hands in surrender.]_ “Speaking of, who played it?”

“Me.” _[Steve takes the card with a flourish.]_ “And, since that’s my fifteenth black card, I do believe that _also_ makes me the winner.”

_[There’s a moment of incredulous silence as Steve calmly spreads out his winning pile. Bucky leans over to count them; sure enough, there are fifteen.]_

“...No.”

_“No!”_

_“Steve_ won Cards Against Humanity?” _[Wade pauses from where he’s walking by with a fork in his mouth and salmon on his plate, peeking over Cameron’s shoulder.]_ “The same guy who had trouble taking his pants off yesterday? You amateurs let this happen the one time I choose not to play?!”

“I just got lucky, I guess.” _[Steve shrugs.]_ “We going again?”

_[A few of the men begin discussing it while Rhodey collects the cards again, grumbling.]_

“It’s the wavelength thing you two have got going on with each other over there.” _[Quill points between Steve and Bucky, who smile knowingly at each other.]_ “That eight card streak where you just kept picking each other’s cards as winners and trading judging back and forth, over and over. It’s _unfair,_ is what it is.”

_[Pepper pokes her head in from the hallway and clears her throat.]_

“Steve, Thor, Bruce, Cameron K.—I need you four to come with me and film some ITMs for the group date.”

_[They look around at each other, acutely aware they make up a good portion of the circle.]_

“We’ll play again later?”

“Sure, why not.”

_[The men begin to disperse, standing and stretching as they walk off in clumps. Steve stands, but before he can follow the other men, Bucky tugs at his pant leg.]_

“Hey, c’mere.”

_[Steve leans down. Bucky lowers his voice.]_

“Level with me. Did you _really_ just get lucky?”

_[Steve smiles angelically.]_

“I haven’t lost a game of Cards Against Humanity since 2010.”

“Rogers, you _secret menace.”_

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W2D4_K_C53_MC6.mxf**

_[Steve and Bucky are in the kitchen of the Bachelor mansion. There’s a contained explosion of ingredients on the island; the two of them bicker comfortably as they walk around, tidying various things up.]_

“I’m genuinely curious, what do you _eat_ when you’re alone? How did you _survive_ before me?”

“Pizza.” _[Bucky puts the carton of eggs in the fridge and shuts it with a snap.]_

“...Pizza.”

“And anger, yes.”

_[T’Challa walks into the kitchen, makes it all the way to the fruit bowl without comment, and then abruptly freezes when he registers the state of the kitchen.]_

“...What are you two doing?”

“Making food.”

“Teaching Bucky how to make food that isn’t microwave eggs.”

_[The island still looks like a contained explosion. T’Challa stares.]_

“...Teaching Bucky how to make _multiple_ foods that aren’t microwave eggs.”

“I see.” _[T’Challa bites into his apple, leaning against the counter with mild interest.]_ “And why the sudden urgency?”

“Well, Bucky’s got a rose now.” _[Steve turns on the oven light, pausing to bend over and check the contents.]_ “So I figure if I get eliminated this week, he’s gonna have to be able to cook _something._ Otherwise he’ll just fall back on anger, seeing as we can’t exactly call for pizza delivery here.”

“I just don’t understand why I’m the only one here, if Wade microwaves _salmon.”_

“Because Wade _can_ cook, he just chooses not to because he’s a chaotic fucker.” _[Steve straightens back up again, glancing at the stove before shutting off one of the burners and pulling of the pan.]_ “Alright, scrambled eggs. Microwave-free. You made them yourself.”

 _[Bucky pulls out two forks, handing one over to Steve. He eyes T’Challa.]_ “You wanna try?”

“This is your first attempt?” _[T’Challa beats a hasty retreat.]_ “I’ll stick with my apple.”

“Suit yourself.”

_[The two try the eggs, pausing to close their eyes and take in the flavors like good Food Network judges.]_

“See? It’s good! Better than the microwave, _and_ more nutritious.”

_[Bucky chews slowly, still thinking.]_

“...Yeah, I’d rather just microwave it. Easier and faster.”

_[Steve bops him on the head with his fork.]_

* * *

The difference between the first and second rose ceremony is nothing short of miraculous. Bucky reflects on it somewhere around hour four and whiskey-coffee cycle two as he refolds his pocket handkerchief—one week Bucky’s ready to drink himself under the table and mail himself with express-shipping back to Brooklyn, and the next...well, he’s still ready to drink himself under the table and mail himself back to Brooklyn. But he’s _also_ willing to wait a few days, because things are awful in less of an immediate ‘everything-is-torture-hit-me-with-a-rock’ way and more of a ‘everything-will-be-terrible-the-inevitable-heat-death-of-the-universe’ way.

It’s probably just that he’s getting used to the feeling of constant surveillance, existentially crippling boredom, and mild background panic.

“You look like you need a drink,” Bucky comments the moment Steve slides into the bar next to him. Upon closer examination, Steve seems to have just gone straight for existentially crippling background panic—he has the far-off look of one staring directly into the abyss, a mildly shell-shocked daze that indicates silent endless screaming. “Do you want me to make something that’ll knock you out or something that’ll do you in? Either way, I’ve got you covered.”

The corner of Steve’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t laugh. Shit, whatever happened during his one-on-one time with Sharon, it must’ve be pretty bad.

“What was it?” Bucky heads straight for the whiskey, pouring two cups and sliding one towards Steve. “Sharon _likes_ you—remember the first impression rose? Clearly, you guys did well on the group date, too. Whatever happened, I’m sure you can explain it. You’re a good guy, Steve—it flows out of you.” Like diarrhea, his brain supplies and his conversational filter vetoes. Good ol’ conversational filter. He sets aside the whiskey anyway, just in case.

Steve blinks, slowly taking a sip of his whiskey and fixing his distant eyes on Bucky.

“...I kissed her,” he says hoarsely.

Bucky waits, but Steve just shakes his head, straightens his tie, and keeps drinking.

...No follow up to that? Okay.

“...I’m sorry for your loss?” Bucky blinks, because really, isn’t Steve kissing Sharon a _good_ thing? Bucky’s pretty sure a decent number of the men have already kissed Sharon—it’s the _Bachelorette_ , for Christ’s sake. If you haven’t kissed Sharon by now, you’re kind of in hot water and oh. Shit. Bucky still has to kiss Sharon. He’s usually _better_ at this.

“I mean, I shouldn't. Have kissed her.” Steve blinks dumbly. “But I did.”

“...I guess it’s traditional to wait until the third date, but since there isn’t a doorstep to drop her off at, I’m sure Tony Stark will let it slide—”

“Shut up, you asshole.” Steve smiles, if a little faintly—point, Bucky. He takes another gulp of whiskey, and makes a face at it. If Steve’s lucid enough to complain about the strength and taste of whiskey again, then he should probably be okay. “It’s not that, it’s just...I didn’t really want to, you know? The moment wasn’t _right_ or whatever—okay, that sounds stupid.”

“It’s not.” Bucky rolls his eyes. “Of course you’re not supposed to kiss someone unless you’re feeling good about it. That’s the _least_ stupid thing about this show—I feel like you’re underestimating just how stupid a lot of what we’re doing here is, Steve.”

“You’ve got me there.” Steve laughs into his cup before sighing again. “But yeah, I _wasn’t_  feeling good about kissing Sharon at that point. I _wasn’t_ ready, and when it happened, I mostly just felt uncomfortable because I knew the camera was there.” He runs a hand through his hair, sighing. “And it’s just—strange, you know? Because I _like_ Sharon. I’m emotionally invested in her, and it’d normally be fine if I didn’t want to kiss her. That’s not the type of person I am.” He scowls to himself, brow furrowing like he’s trying to figure out some particularly difficult equation. “It doesn’t...I don’t think it’s a bad thing that I’m not ready to kiss her. It’s only been a week. I just don’t know why I kissed her _anyway.”_

“Well, you can’t rule out alien possession.”

“I’m serious, Bucky.”

“So am I.” He pretty sure he can see what’s happening here. He could be entirely off-base, of course, but—well. Bucky _was_ just contemplating kissing Sharon himself a few minutes ago. “Think about it. All our relationships so far have been nudged forward by the eyes of Big Brother, right? ‘You should be ready to say this, you should be trying to catch up to that’, and so on and so forth.” It’s something that he’s gotten more and more righteously indignant about ever since his post-rose ITM. “In some ways, it’s easier because we’ve got someone walking us through the beats of a relationship. Relationships are _confusing.”_

_“Right?”_

“And this stage in a relationship is usually awkward, and uncomfortable, and involves a lot of flailing around the other person while trying to figure out when to get where.” Bucky knows. Less from personal experience—not big on relationships—and more from watching Clint flail on his beat-up couch. “But it’s _not,_ because we’ve got nineteen other people we can look at and pace ourselves against, and an entire television crew telling us what beats to hit when. The structure’s annoying, and we basically live under the constant threat of being dumped, but it makes the way we should _act_ more obvious.”

“...And this leads to alien possession how?”

“I’m not going full conspiracy theorist—subliminal messaging or mindhacking or whatever.” Or maybe he is. Bucky’s pretty sure Pepper _wishes_ she could skinjack him or surgically remove his ability to curse or whatever. “But—I mean. There’s a lot of pressure to keep up with the rest of the house, especially because you and I kind of _are_ the examples to keep up with.”

“Bold of you to say.”

“We’re the only two who’ve gotten roses on competition dates.” Bucky shrugs. “There are other front-runners, of course—Thor, I’d say, or T’Challa. She seems comfortable when they’re close-by.”

“Personally, I think Cameron. I don’t know what they did during their one-on-one time on their group date, but it took a while and put her in a really good mood.” Steve shakes his head. “So...what. You’re saying the pressure to catch up made me feel like I _had_ to kiss her no matter what?”

“I’m _also_ saying that someone might’ve casually brought it up to you right before your time together or something.” Bucky shrugs. “I mean, that’s kind of what the producers are here for—to force us to do the things they need us to do.”

“...Fuck.” Steve slides the alcohol back toward Bucky so forcefully that Bucky has to lean all the way across the bar to catch it; when Bucky turns back, his knuckles are white as he glares at his own fists like he’s ready to fight it. When his hands begin shaking, he pounds them once for emphasis on the bartop. Bucky shoots a glance towards the doorway, ready to let loose some F-bombs of his own when he realizes a cameraman and a sound tech have caught interest. _“Fuck.”_

“Steve,” Bucky ventures as gently as possible. He’d be a little more scared, but Steve looks frustrated more than angry. “You _know_ that that’s Pepper’s job. It doesn’t mean we can’t get along with her and be friends with her—or each other. It just means she’s also got a job to do on the side.” And that job is being manipulative, but now seems like a bad time to bring it up.

“It’s not that, I _know_ that. I’m not—like, I know the situation we’re in. It’s not like I’m expecting to become best friends with anyone in the house or anything.” That’s a little sobering, but fair. “I just...when I came here, I wanted to be _better_ than that. I wanted to look at what I was doing and make sure I didn’t do anything I wouldn’t naturally do, because I want the relationships I make here—with _and_ without Sharon—to function when this weird summer-camp-social-experiment is over. I wanted to still be _myself.”_

“...Ah.”

“And it’s just—Christ.” Steve runs a hand through his hair, tugging a little when he gets to the end. “What does it say about me, that I’ve fucked up a week in?”

Bucky had his own version of this conversation with Clint before he left Brooklyn, come to think of it, although it was nested pretty heavily in sarcastic banter about ‘letting fame change him’. He suspects the only reason he’s taking his own behavior as well as he is is because he had this moment with Steve on Night One, back when he cut off a relative stranger he’d met not six hours ago on the limousine. If it had been something as emotionally invested as kissing Sharon a week into the competition, he might be here instead.

As it is, most of their behavior’s been dictated by the situations the producers have put them in, whether purposeful or not. If he’s honest, even his friendship with Steve can be chalked up to the fact that, for some reason, the producers are still holding out hope that they’ll blow up at each other in some fiery Brooklyn-based rivalry if they just keep getting put in the same room over and over; he can’t imagine Steve being similarly angry about their friendship, but it might just be because he hasn’t noticed it period.

“I know we keep saying it, but...this _isn’t_ a natural situation.” Bucky reaches over, carefully telegraphing his movements, and pries Steve’s fingers out of their clenched position. Steve holds strong for a few seconds before he unclenches and his limbs give easily. “It’d be great if we could easily pick what we’re being told to do versus what we’d really do, but you shouldn’t be comparing yourself to what you’d do in the ‘real world’ or whatever. Of _course_ we’re going to do things differently here. We signed ourselves up for a fucked up situation.” This entire show’s gonna give Bucky an existential crisis, dammit. “Just because you’re not approaching this relationship the same way you approach monogamous dating in New York doesn’t mean you’re not being _yourself._ It means you’re being yourself on the _Bachelorette.”_

Steve gives him a wearily skeptical look.

“Steve Rogers kissed a girl in a summer-camp-social-experiment where he’s competitively dating one woman while she considers and compares that relationship with nineteen other equally volatile relationships.” Bucky sighs when he notes the imprints of fingernails on Steve’s hands. It’s something Bucky doesn’t know Steve well enough to tackle, honestly. Definitely not here, with the camera still filming them. “And that’s different from when or how Steve Rogers would kiss a girl he’s emotionally attached to that he met in a coffee shop in New York. But Steve fucking Rogers did both.”

“Steven _Grant_ Rogers.”

“Are you the literal personification of middle America? Are you witness protection?” Bucky lets Steve’s hands go, dumps the whiskey in the sink, and fills the cup with water before offering it back to Steve. “But more importantly, they basically manipulated you into kissing someone—so just say the word, and I’ll find whoever pressured you to do this and throw my drink dramatically in their faces.”

Steve blinks at him, water halfway up to his mouth, face frozen for a second as if he’s still catching up with what Bucky’s saying.

And then he laughs, putting the water back down on the table as those giant shoulders hunch over in silent giggles.

Thank _God._

“We’ve got a no violence contract, James Buchanan.”

Bucky gestures to the rose on his lapel. “Immunity, motherfucker.” He shakes his head, switching out his own cup—enough alcohol for today, he thinks. They’ve spilled their guts plenty for the camera. “You’ve done it now, Steven Grant. Worst mistake you made, telling me your middle name.”

“I take comfort in the fact that, no matter how much you throw it at me, it’ll never be as bad as a dead president.” Steve shakes his head, sighing. “You’re right, you’re right. Don’t get used to hearing me say it, but you are.”

“Of _course_ I am.”

“Yeah, well. Still.” Steve sighs, leaning his head in one hand. “Doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it—the way everything’s so contrived.”

“The fact that you’re worried about whether you’re taking it seriously is pretty much a sign that you’re taking this more seriously than at least half the people here.” The camera glints as the cameraman shifts; Bucky takes the chance to look at the two furniture fixtures eavesdropping on them. There’s the cameraman with frosted tips in his hair again, looking pretty stoic, and the sound woman with red-painted fingernails. Both of them are dressed entirely in black. “You two have probably been here a while. What do you think?”

The sound technician frowns, crossing her arms even though her eyes dart sympathetically over to Steve. “You’re really not supposed to talk to me.”

“He’s having a tough time, Wanda.” The cameraman relaxes his grip, lowering the camera and turning to address Steve directly. “Everyone has a tough time with this at some point after they get here. The ones that don’t, the things they learn here fall apart when they leave.”

“You’re on the right track,” the sound woman cuts in, not to be outdone. “People _do_ learn weird things about themselves while they’re here, usually. Take it, process it, and use it moving forward.”

“There you have it, straight from the experts” Bucky sighs, raising his glass of water and swirling it around; he stares into it a little before holding it out. “Take it. Process it. Use it moving forward.”

Steve stares between the three of them, eyes lingering at the glass Bucky’s holding up, before a slow smirk spreads back on his face. Jesus, he looks like an _asshole._ Bucky misses it. “First off, that’s plagiarism.”

“Fuck the police, no one’s recording this shit.”

“Second off, are you _toasting_ at me? Again? You know how I feel about toasting six times in one week.”

“Seven, after this afternoon.” Bucky jerks the glass toward Steve again, smirking himself. “We’re learning new things. It warrants celebration.” He leans over, grabbing the two closest containers—a ceramic mug and a shot glass, respectively—and picks up the whiskey before nodding over to the cameraman and the sound woman. “You two, get in on this—what are your names?”

“Wanda,” the cameraman says immediately.

“Pietro. _I’m_ Wanda.” The sound technician points irritably at the cameraman, scowling. “Please excuse him. We shared a womb, once. Worst nine months of my life. And we’re not supposed to drink on the job.”

“Water, then.” Bucky splashes some water into the cups from the sink one-handed. His left arm is starting to shake; he lowers his glass surreptitiously to give himself time to recover. Steve gives him a shrewd glance, but that’s something to address later. “Come on. Here we go.”

“Toasting with water. I hate you.” But Steve raises his cup anyway, so how much does he hate Bucky _really?_ “My personal growth is worth more than this.”

“Ready?” Bucky smiles, jostling their cups together. “To moving forward!”

“Wait a sec, is this all just an extended ‘Meet the Robinsons’ reference—”

_“Drink.”_

* * *

**ITM: Steve Rogers**

“I’m looking forward to next week.” _[He smiles; although it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, his body language is still relaxed.]_ “I’d really love to get a one-on-one date. I want to get to know Sharon and show her who I really am.”

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W2_RS_C31_QS.mxf**

_[The men are arranged in a familiar formation for the rose ceremony; most of them already have roses, although there are still a couple left on the tray. There’s the quiet murmur of background noise as cameramen move around equipment for the next take. The contestants are murmuring quietly amongst themselves, although a producer shushes them every time the noise level threatens to rise to normal speaking volume.]_

“Are you spying on the contestants again?”

 _[Pietro giggles.]_ “Yeah.”

“...Let me see.”

_[The camera pans around; Scott turns away surreptitiously to pick his nose, Loki leans over to flick the rose on Thor’s lapel, and Brock checks to make sure no one’s watching before bending over, picking up a tumbler of alcohol, and taking a long drink. Steve and Bucky are standing impossibly still, serious ‘this-rose-ceremony-is-life-or-death’ faces plastered on. They’re murmuring at each other out of the corners of their mouths.]_

“You think they’re doing okay?”

“Why, Wanda, do mine ears deceive me or have you chosen your favorites for the season?”

“Fuck you.” _[There’s no heat behind it.]_ “Pull in on them and let me turn up their volume real quick. I’m gonna listen in on what they’re saying.”

“What happened to getting in trouble?”

“Well, we’ve been instructed to film them if they start arguing, and they look pretty serious. There’s nothing wrong with double-checking.”

“Just to do our jobs.”

“Purely occupational.”

“As you say, sister mine.” _[Pietro zooms in on them accordingly.]_ “Put your headphone audio input on speaker, would you? I wanna hear them too.”

_[Static crackles, and then Steve and Bucky can be heard muttering in low, tinny voices.]_

_“Okay, ready?”_

_[Bucky takes a deep, shuddering breath.] “Hit me.”_

_“I’m just happy I_ rose _to the occasion.”_

_“Oh, come on, that’s not even funny.” [Bucky sounds disappointed. His expression remains motionless on-camera.] “That’s a lame pun and you know it, Rogers.”_

_“Like you could do better?”_

_“I can, I will, and I’m about to. You ready?”_

_[Steve breathes deeply. On the camera, he’s working his faces in various positions before falling into a stoic, blank stare once more.] “Go.”_

_“I’m glad you_ be-leaf _in our relationship.”_

_“Is that even a yes?”_

_“Oh, like yours was any clearer.” [Bucky shakes his limbs a little, clearing his throat and straightening his jacket.] “Next one. Onward.”_

_“Here we go.” [Steve snorts.]_

_“Ha! You laughed! I win!”_

_“I laughed at my own joke. Besides, the rule isn’t who laughs, it’s who laughs loudly enough to get yelled at by a producer.” [Steve shakes his head.] “Alright...I_ petal _my effort into wooing you.”_

_[Bucky goes distinctly bug-eyed for a second; his breathing stutters before he lets out a strangled croak.] “...That was good, Rogers. You nearly got me.”_

_“Oh, I’m just getting started, believe me.” [Steve’s lips twitch upward briefly.] “And_ when _you lose, you’re gonna have to buy me that drink when we get back to Brooklyn.”_

_“No offense, but what you consume? That’s not a proper drink at all. I’m not dropping money on that, no way.” [Bucky stamps down a smirk.] “Besides, congratulate me. I’m about to win this bet.”_

_“Bring. It. On.”_

_“You asked for it.” [Bucky turns away, voice dropping further as he leans in to whisper directly into Steve’s ear.] “Sharon calls you up to her. She holds out the rose to you. She says,” [and his voice goes high and breathless,] “‘Steve, will you accept this rose?’”_

_[Steve nods, eyes alert.]_

_“And you look her in the eye, smile your boy scout smile, take her hands in yours, and say...” [Bucky pauses for dramatic effect.] “‘Of course, baby. I’m_ thorny _for you.’”_

_[Steve, Wanda, and Pietro all cackle simultaneously. Sure enough, producers are there in seconds to scold all three.]_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "but sen," i hear you whisper. "but sen, you need to pace yourself out more, stop putting up chapters every day you're not even done and you've hit major writer's block"
> 
> to that i answer with hysterical laughter
> 
> -the hill behind the bachelor mansion exists, the body image stuff is a real issue and they do indeed just run up and down that hill in lieu of a gym. feel free to imagine steve rogers 'on your left'-ing all nineteen of his bachelor house compatriots, only for thor to metaphorically curbstomp him into the dust.  
> -no air conditioning in the bachelor mansion. i'm 99% sure i did in fact read that but the last 1% of me thinks 'nah, sounds like inhumane working conditions'  
> -as far as i can tell virtually every meal in that house is catered--like, i think someone mentioned you could ask for food and they'd bring it to you, but they go out of their way to make sure that contestants have legit nothing to do but sit around and stew in drama/obsess over the lead. but i needed steve being house dad to involve steve making eggs for everyone and now here we are, retconning the universe.  
> -THE CANDY JARS ARE REAL. and i want them.  
> -you might as well get used to the terminology and idea of man chats, because they're real and they're everywhere.  
> -stripping date was ripped entirely from andie's season of the bachelorette. just be glad i couldn't work in the poor dude who had to strip in the robot costume because i totally would've. a lot of the weirder lines from the uncut footage are ripped directly from the episode, too, including the 'female fantasy' line and everything tony stark/chris harrison says.  
> -chester phillips was not supposed to be in this universe at all whoops  
> -steve is a drama queen but no one suffers more this week than bruce banner on the strip date, not even loki  
> -THE HOUSE IS ON FIRE SOMEONE CALL 911. still laughing.  
> -'skinjacking' has entered my personal lexicon but is that just something i picked up from everlost? do most people not know what it means???  
> -what song would they strip to comment below i know zero (0) stripping songs  
> -taja has reminded me that there's a 90% chance tonight is #jumpthefence night. we are truly blessed in 2k19 the year of our lord.


	4. Week 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's vitally important that you understand that THE DUMB MOTORCYCLE RAP (you'll know it when you see it) was not my original invention. it was an actual rap. free-styled by the men on jojo's season. it s2g i don't think 'HE NEEDS A STOOL' is a diss

The good news is, they’ve finally figured out a schedule for the bathrooms.

The bad news...

_ “How long does it take to gel your fucking hair, Barnes?” _

“Eat my entire ass,” Bucky mutters to himself quietly as he rubs some...thing on his face. Steve makes a mental note to take a peek at the bottle at a later point in time; Bucky’s personal hygiene is the most laborious he’s ever seen. “We’ve still got another ten minutes, I’m not leaving early just because Brock Rumlow’s life coach put him on a diet of prunes.”

Steve nudges Bucky in the side, leans over, and spits his mouthwash into the sink. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

“Hm.” Bucky gives his hands a quick rinse, tilting his face to the side a little and eyeing himself critically before tossing his head back. “EAT MY ENTIRE ASS, RUMLOW!”

“You’re a  _ monster.” _ With nothing else to do and nowhere else to sit, Steve shuts the toilet and settles in to watch Bucky brush his teeth. “First off, I’m pretty sure that was Jack.”

“Well, he can eat it too.” Bucky scoffs before shoving his toothbrush in his mouth.

“Second off, I didn’t mean it as a personal challenge, my God.”

The words come out garbled, but the incredulous glare Bucky gives him is pretty self-explanatory—in this case, the explanation being something along the lines of ‘I said those exact same words to you the last time we were in this bathroom and you went off on Brock so hard that he’s getting his friend to do the yelling for him’. 

In Steve’s defense, stinking up the bathroom right before someone else uses it is just insensitive, and Scott and Bruce were never gonna say anything, and also Bucky told him to, and yes, he thought something remarkably similar in middle school right before Gilmore Hodge punched him in the face. That’s not the point. It’s time to change the subject, is the point, probably.

“Do you ever wonder about that bathrobe?”

Bucky flaps the edge of the bathrobe he’s wearing at Steve, raising an eyebrow and making a generally inquisitive noise.

“I mean, it’s the general philosophy of hotel towels, isn’t it?” In that his mother told him not to use them to touch his face, hands, or genitals. “Not to mention, it’s in this particular house.”

Bucky gives him a confused look.

“...Don’t make me say it.”

“I don’t know what you’re trying to say,” Bucky warbles around a mouthful of foam. He bats his eyelashes, leans down, and promptly spits in the sink.

“This bathroom is the only place in the house where anyone jerks it,” Steve deadpans. “The bedrooms are communal. The hot tub’s open air. Cameras are everywhere except the bathroom.” He eyes the decorative knobs on the sprawling towel rack. “...I hope.”

“So what you’re saying,” says Bucky as he wipes his mouth on the corner of the bathrobe, “is that someone has definitely gotten semen on this bathrobe.”

“I’m kind of amazed you’re not bothered.”

“Eh.” Bucky shrugs, slides the bathrobe off, and takes the pair of jeans Steve offers him. “I’ve done worse. Besides, I’m not gonna dry off and dress  _ behind the shower curtains—” _

“—I’m trying to spare you!”

“—because that’s just  _ overkill, _ Steve, when you live in a house with twenty—well, seventeen—men and the default dress code is ‘shirtless-comma-swim trunks’.” Bucky shoots him a look. “And I don’t want to traumatize my straight friend who  _ does, _ in fact, dry off and dress behind the shower curtains. Hence, bathrobe.”

“I can  _ handle _ your dick, I’m comfortable with my sexuality.” Steve rolls his eyes as Bucky tugs on his shirt, rolling up the sleeves before he goes for his wooden comb for a final touch-up. 

“I’m sure this bathrobe has assisted many a member of this house for this exact reason, you know.” Bucky twists his elbow a little, trying to get his arm in better position. Steve’s noticed by now that Bucky favors his right hand over his left, but if no one else has mentioned it, he figures the least he can do is let his friend retain some level of personal privacy. “Many years in the service of straight men, shielding other men’s junk from their sensitive eyes. Never mind that they’ve got junk of their own. God forbid another dude suffer to see it.”

“God bless you, bathrobe, and thank you for your service.” Steve rolls his eyes and checks the watch Bucky left lying on the counter. “Time’s almost up.”

_ “BARNES!” _

“Hey, you know Steve’s in here also, right?!” Bucky yells back, slamming the comb down hard enough to clatter. “He’s sitting on the toilet right now, actually, so if you’re not careful maybe he’ll follow your lead and stink up the entire room for your shower with one of those  _ atomic shits—” _

“Bucky!”

“You’re literally sitting  _ on the toilet lid, _ I’m not lying or anything.” Bucky folds up the bathrobe, patting the sleeve lovingly before hanging it on a hook and shoving his assorted toiletries into the appropriate bag. “Alright, let’s go. We gotta bum around and wait for nothing for a few more hours.”

“The price we all pay for stardom.” Steve opens the door, smiling tightly at Jack and Brock’s glowering faces. “Shall we?”

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W3D1_MR_C04_MC2.mxf**

_ [The seventeen men are gathered in the main room, lounging on couches that are gathered in a familiar U-formation. The energy seems high and generally positive; the men chat animatedly, relieved to still be here two weeks in.] _

“All right, you guys, settle down.”

_ [A few men glance incredulously somewhere off-camera, presumably toward whichever producer said it.] _

“You haven’t given us anything  _ else _ to do yet.”

“What do you want, for us to just sit here in silence?”

_ [Pepper cuts in calmly.] _

“Why not talk about what happened last rose ceremony? Three people got eliminated, after all—and how about the fact that T’Challa went back to talk to Sharon even though he already had a rose from his one-on-one?”

_ [T’Challa raises an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. Someone coughs awkwardly. Finally, Steve sighs, shifting from where he’s sitting on the floor in front of Bucky’s legs, and bites the bullet for everyone else.] _

“I mean, I know we saw people getting eliminated during the first rose ceremony, but this rose ceremony felt different, you know?”  _ [He looks around him; a few people engage, murmuring general words of affirmation.] _ “After we’ve had the week to get to know Sharon, I think everyone’s starting to develop real feelings—”  _ [Bucky calmly digs his foot into Steve’s ribs, face completely neutral, and Steve reaches a hand behind his back and pinches him without missing a beat.]  _ “—so it’s a lot more scary to get sent home.”

“Yeah, it definitely makes me want to work hard on our relationship this week.”  _ [Cameron K. sits forward.] _ “It’s a necessary part of the process, but it’s tough. No one wants to get eliminated.”

“This week, it’s all about building our relationships with Sharon. We’ve had the chance to create a spark, but now we have to see if we can take our foundation to—”

_ [The knock on the door starts so loudly and suddenly that everybody jumps; Steve, Bucky, and Rhodey all leap bodily onto their feet.] _

“Jesus Christ Almighty!”

“What the fuck?”

_ [Seventeen heads swivel in unison to stare at the door as the knocking continues. After a few beats, people finally start to relax. Someone laughs.] _

“It feels like they’re conditioning us to be nervous every time someone comes with news.”

“Buddy, they don’t need to condition us. I’m already there.”

* * *

**ITM: Jack Rollins**

“Ugh! Finally!”  _ [Jack makes an exaggerated motion before sitting back and laughing, clearly excited.] _ “Finally, I get to spend some proper time alone developing my relationship with Sharon. It’ll be nice to get away from the house. The guys are great and all, but spending all my time around them  _ sucks. _ I’m  _ so _ glad I can just get away, just me and Sharon.”  _ [He smiles half-jokingly.] _ “I’m ready for all of them to go home already, in fact.”

* * *

**ITM: James “Bucky” Barnes**

“He said that? Really?!”  _ [Bucky scoffs, rolling his eyes.] _ “Honestly, Pep, I’m not surprised.”

_ “Has he not made friends with the men in the house?” _

“Well, he’s made  _ a _ friend. Maybe he wouldn’t find life so shitty here, if he had friends other than Brock. Sure, it’s reality television, but that doesn’t mean you gotta lean full-tilt into the manipulative drama-stirring villain archetype, you know? It’s kind of a bad look if you’re closer to your producer than you are to the rest of the guys...no offense, Pepper. I love you. But you  _ are _ getting paid to be here.”

_ “None taken.” [Pepper’s voice takes on an amused tone.] “I am, indeed, paid handsomely to put up with your uncooperative ass.” _

* * *

**ITM: Steve Rogers**

“Getting a one-on-one this week is really important for Sharon and I’s relationship.”  _ [Steve’s expression is particularly serious.] _ “The first impression rose was a great start, but we haven’t had a good chunk of time to really connect and get to know each other. If we’re gonna go any further, we’re going to have to spend more quality time together.”

_ “Is the situation already so dire?” _

“Maybe not, but...”  _ [Steve shrugs.] _ “Relationships are built on communication, and I kinda thought I’d have a lot more of that. It’s already week three.”

_“It’s_ just _week three.”_ _[Pepper sounds sympathetic.] “Besides, there’s always the second one-on-one, right?”_

“...Yeah, you’re right, Pepper. I just need to hold on. If Sharon’s interested in me, she’ll make sure we have the time we need.”  _ [Despite his words, Steve’s expression contorts a little as he takes on a distinctly frustrated expression.] _ “I just wish I could somehow  _ discuss _ this with her.”

_ “Do you think any of these reservations come from your conversation with Bucky during the last rose ceremony?” _

“I mean, we talked about it. He helped me work out some of the problems on my end.”

_ “Do you he should be taking so much interest in  _ your _ relationship in Sharon, when he’s got his own to worry about?” _

“Gotta find something for me to say, huh?”  _ [Steve sighs, smiling wryly.] _ “I don’t mind. Honestly, after my talk with Bucky last night, I think I’m doing remarkably okay. I just had a pretty specific mental image about how my relationships would ideally develop, and it’s been pretty different so far. I’m adjusting, though. I’ll do better.”  _ [He shrugs.] _ “I’m learning about the process as I go; it’ll take me a while, but I’ll use it moving forward.

* * *

Apply for the Bachelor, they’d said. It’ll be fine, they’d said. What’s the worst thing that could happen, Natasha had said straight to his  _ goddamn face _ while giving Sam her video camera like a fucking  _ liar. _

“Save me.”

Bucky’s sprawled belly-down on the mattress, three separate jars of Skittles from the kitchen on the bedside table closest to him; a few more are at the foot of his bed, balancing precariously on a tall tower of paperback books. He raises an eyebrow skeptically, hackles lowering from when he’d jolted when Steve first threw open the door and practically vaulted into the safety of the shared six-man bedroom. “Can’t save you if you don’t tell me what the fuck you’re doing.”

“I…wait.” There’s a literal grid of candy taking up the entirety of Bucky’s pillow. “First, what are  _ you _ doing?”

“Hm? Oh.” Bucky looks down at the nonsensical arrangement of candy, shrugs, and sweeps a hand through the entire thing. Candy goes rolling all over his mattress as he flips over, tossing an arm over his eyes and hanging half-off the bed like a particularly lazy cat. Steve’s pretty sure his hair grazes the floor. “Well, turns out they’ve also got all the  _ novelty _ Skittle flavors also, but since they’re not in the package I have no idea what the names of the flavors are or what pack they’re from. So I’ve been trying to order these Skittles from best to worst flavor with only taste to go by.” Bucky wiggles a little, shifting into a sunbeam and closing his eyes contentedly. “It’s a tough job, but someone’s gotta do it. And I’m bored.”

Steve eyes the candy rolling across the floor, picks up the one closest to him, and tentatively puts it in his mouth. It’s a chocolate covered espresso bean. “And you gave up because…?”

“I’ll clean it up in a sec, it’s not like I’ve got anything  _ else to do.” _ Bucky growls with a level of vitriol that impresses Steve; it’s been a week, and he’s actually pretty sure the two of them are the only ones left in the house who still actively complain about the lack of entertainment to producers. “And I gave up because, right before you came in, I finally figured out that  _ those _ Skittles,” he points at the jar on top of the closest pile of books, “and  _ those _ Skittles,” he points to a jar on his bedside table, “use the same pink pigment for two different flavors, one of which is mildly okay and the other of which takes like shame feels. There’s no way to tell the difference until it’s in your mouth.” Bucky sighs. “I wasn’t sure until I’d eaten eighteen pink Skittles in a row. My mouth will never feel normal again. And now I’m having an existential crisis. Why, what did you want me to save  _ you _ from?”

“Nothing as bad as candy corporations and their deceitful flavor-mixing.” Bucky shifts his over to make space for Steve on his mattress; Steve sits, gratefully stretching his legs and sighing. “Some  _ idiot _ somehow bought a guitar with them, which was fine until people started singing, which was  _ fine _ until  _ Wade _ started singing dumb made-up haikus about Sharon, which was fine until a producer found a cameraman and got  _ everyone _ to start singing dumb made-up haikus about Sharon.”

“Yikes.”

“Yeah. I’m very scared. Pass me the best flavor you found, would you?” Bucky fishes a Skittle out from somewhere under the crook of his own knee and passes it along; it’s a dark blue. Steve pops it into his mouth without hesitation, chewing thoughtfully. “...Not bad, but I still think red original’s better.”

“There’s one over there.” Bucky points to one of the stacks of books by Steve; sure enough, there’s a red skittle sitting on the corner, propped up by a dog-eared cover. Sadly, it’s not strawberry flavored; Steve grimaces as a taste strongly reminiscent of cherry cough syrup spreads across his tongue before he realizes that there are at least twenty books in towers of varying heights, each supporting a giant jar of Skittles.

“...Hey, Buck? Where did all these books come from?”

“What?”

“The books.” It takes Steve a second to shift the jar onto the floor, but when he does, he can physically feel his eyebrows jumping on his head. “ _ The Song of Achilles? _ America’s bad boy, reading classical literature? What will the internet say?”

“Hey, I’m not America’s bad boy  _ yet.  _ All the more reason to get my reading out of the way.” Bucky sighs, glancing over as Steve flips through the book. “But...uh, yeah. So that’s my stash. Don’t tell Pepper.”

“Hang on,  _ all _ of these are yours?” A quick count reveals that there are nineteen—not  _ exactly _ twenty, but still. “How the hell did you fit the essentials, two countries worth of clothing, and  _ an entire fucking library _ into the two-suitcase limit?!”

“Yeah, so first off.” Bucky rolls off the bed and lazily flicks open the one suitcase of his that isn’t a perpetually unzipped mess of leather and hair products, revealing  _ yet more books. _ He begins packing the stacks on the floor up; Steve spies a few books he’s pretty sure he read in high school and a few other books he’s never heard of in his goddamn life. “The trick to sneaking in the payload? Pack everything tightly and only bring paperbacks. Also, why do you think I borrowed your shirt on date one?”

“...Because you’re an asshole?”

“Because I didn’t bring many of my own.” Bucky rolls his eyes. “This suitcase is books all the way down; what’s in there is what I’ve got. Trust me, if I brought my own clothes, I would  _ not _ be pillaging you and your...whatever style you’ve got going on.”

“Ouch.”

“Second off, I’m pretty sure I’m not actually supposed to have these—or at the very least, I’m not supposed to use them until there are less of us. So keep it on the DL, okay?”

“Yeah, I was gonna say—they don’t allow us to have any entertainment. And even if they  _ did, _ I don’t think anyone was expecting Bucky Barnes and his Traveling Library. Didn’t you consider just bringing a Kindle?!” 

“Yeah, I thought about that—I’d have to take it out for security checks if I end up making it far enough to travel, and the producers would definitely see me doing it, so this is the only way I could read things on the plane. Besides, I’m attached to physical copies—I already had most of these books purchased, and there isn’t much downloaded on my Kindle.”

“...So you decided to bring a  _ library.” _

“It’s not that bad,” Bucky says defensively, nesting a WWII military history book next to a spine the width of Steve’s wrist that appears to be the complete Chronicles of Narnia, of which there are apparently  _ seven. _ “It’s just some classic science fiction—a few from Kurt Vonnegut, a few from Ray Bradbury—and some classic fantasy.”

“Yeah.” Steve blinks. “Yeah, that’s okay.”

“Some bucket list items I never got around to,” Bucky continues. _“The Windup Girl, Altered Carbon, The City and the City._ Some old favorites, like _American Gods, The Left Hand of Darkness, The Book Thief_ —World War II stuff’s an old favorite, both fiction and non-fiction.”

“Sure. That’s fine.”

“Chernow’s _Alexander Hamilton._ Been meaning to read that ever since the musical.” Steve accidentally kicks Bucky’s pillow; there’s a book under there, too. They both stare at it. “Clint foisted _Ready Player One_ on me because he’s a basic bitch, but I figured I’d try it and it came in a pack with _Armada,_ so...”

Steve slowly shifts a jar of Skittles off a stack four books high, which immediately falls over.

“Okay,” Bucky amends. “So maybe it is that bad.”

“No, I wouldn’t say that. It’s just every science-fiction, fantasy, magical realism, historical fiction, historical  _ non-fiction,  _ and dystopian novel I’ve ever read.” Steve flips the book over in his hands, showing the cover back to Bucky. “Oh, and  _ The Song of Achilles.” _

“Oh, yeah, gotta love classic epic literature.” Bucky shrugs, spreading his arms out in a helpless gesture. “Or in this case, I guess it’s the retelling.”

“Retelling?”

“The gay one,” he says absently, sweeping up a few of the Skittles. “Hey, can you pass me the Lord of the Rings trilogy? Gotta finish this layer before I start putting the more modern publications in.”

“Right, sure.” Steve scrapes the books off the floor, pausing to turn over the titles and scanning them until he comes across something at least vaguely familiar. “Uh...okay, so here’s Fellowship of the Ring. The other ones are The Twin Towers and Return of the King, right?”

“It’s The  _ Two _ Towers—hang on, wait a second.” Bucky turns toward Steve threateningly, holding _The Sirens of Titan_ aloft in a way that should  _ not _ inspire this much fear in his heart. “Have you not read the  _ Lord of the Rings trilogy?!” _

“I...” Steve  _ knows _ his next words are a bad idea, he’s not an idiot. He just says them anyway, because...well, because he’s kind of an idiot. “I’ve seen the movies?”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“Look, I’ve read The Hobbit!”

“That’s  _ not the same thing!” _ Bucky bats away Steve’s hand, which is currently holding up _Fellowship of the Ring_ like it’s a peace offering. “No, you’re not putting that away, you nincompoop. This is perfect. We’re in a forcibly electronic-free scenario with mind-meltingly stupid amounts of free time and nothing to distract you. You’re  _ reading the goddamn trilogy.” _

“I’ve read the entirety of Harry Potter, okay? It’s not like I have a personal vendetta against fantasy books or anything—”

“You and I both know by now that that is  _ not the same thing.” _ Bucky gathers up his last few books and sets them in the suitcase, shifting the paperbacks around before shutting the lid carefully. When he turns around, he’s also got the other two books from the trilogy, wielding one in each hand like he’s prepared to shove them both forcibly into Steve’s brain whether he’s willing or not. “You are going to read them. You are going to read them while I watch you read them, so I can hear you react verbally in real time. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any questions?”

“Uh...” Steve smiles angelically. “Will there be a test on this when I’m done?”

“No, but I want a spoken-word presentation on the themes, characters, and favorite moments.” Bucky jerks his head, smile easing onto his face despite how much he looks like he wants to keep chewing Steve out. “Now hurry up and hide these before someone from the crew comes barging in and confiscates them.”

Reality is an illusion and the universe has a dumb sense of humor, which is probably why Pietro and Wanda come bursting in through the door at that very second.

“...How the  _ fuck?” _

“Are you two  _ psychic?!” _

“No, but our grandparents were.” Thankfully, Pietro’s camera is being held in both hands instead of being balanced on his shoulder toward them; Wanda’s got a mic pack in her hands, ready to attach it to someone’s clothing. It takes both of them a few seconds to look between the mess on the floor, the books in Bucky’s hands, and the way Steve’s got his arm at a really uncomfortable angle from where he’s shoved  _ The Song of Achilles _ under the closest possible barrier. Which, sadly, is his own back. The corner digs uncomfortably into his spine.

“...Yeah, so you’re not allowed to have those books.” Wanda sounds apologetic, at least. “I...should probably take them and tell Pepper to give them back to you when there are less contestants around for you to spend your time with...”

“Aw, c’mon, Wanda, can’t you make an exception for them?” Pietro smirks. “Steve’s struggling and Bucky’s trying so hard, and they’re our  _ favorites, _ so the least we can do is—”

“We’re your favorites?”

“Aw, no worries, you’re my favorites too.” Bucky smirks, suddenly throwing on his most charming grin. Behind his back, he wiggles both books; Steve takes the opportunity to grab them and slowly tuck them under his legs.

“Anyway, I think we can just...pretend we came in a few minutes late.” Pietro shakes his head, raising an eyebrow as Steve shifts uncomfortably on top of three paperback books. Unfortunately, all he succeeds in doing is inadvertently shoving _Return of the King_ halfway up his asscrack. Silently, he resolves to never tell Bucky about this ever for his own safety. “You’d have to put them away anyway, Bucky—we need you for a Man Chat.”

Bucky groans, which is totally understandable; Steve feels a shiver of dread run up his spine at the promise of two hours of sitting around gossiping about drama and inter-house relationships, minimum. And he’s not even the one going.

“You know what?” The things he does for Bucky, really. That, and he kind of owes him for the fact that he’s probably actively crushing three books under his body weight. “I can do it instead. Bucky’s gotta clean up all of...those, and I’m not exactly busy with anything right now.”

Behind his back, Bucky does a series of hand gestures. Among them, Steve recognizes the sign language  _ thank you, _ which—huh. Steve didn’t know Bucky knew sign language.

“Actually, it’s gotta be Bucky.” Wanda shakes her head, face twisting briefly as she glances between the two of them. “...To be specific, they want him to ‘reveal’ the moment we filmed at the rose ceremony to the other men. Steve not wanting to kiss Sharon.” She bites her lip. “They’re hoping people will take it the wrong way.”

“...Okay, counteroffer.” It takes Steve a minute to recognize the expression on Bucky’s face, less because he’s seen it on other people and more because he recognizes it on his own. Bucky’s  _ angry _ for him—he’s defending him, angrier than Steve’s used to seeing him, like the very idea of bad-mouthing Steve is personally reprehensible to him. “How about I  _ don’t _ betray my friend’s trust and invade his privacy by dishing out things he told me in confidence? What kind of back-stabbing, two-faced buttmunch do you think I  _ am?!” _

It’s probably the weird, generally heightened emotional atmosphere of the house that’s making Steve feel this warm and fuzzy about Bucky’s loyalty.

“They’re still trying to play up a rivalry between you two.”

“Well, I don’t know about Steve, but  _ I’d _ have to say that we’re friends.” Bucky turns to Steve, the expression on his face scarily between a snarl and a smug smirk. “Would you say we’re friends?”

“Yeah, we’re friends.” Steve shrugs.

“There you go, we’re friends.” Bucky turns back, tossing his hair out of his face. “The only people in that conversation were me and Steve, and I won’t say jackshit. You’re either gonna have to ask him, or you’re gonna have to show some rando the footage and pretend he was eavesdropping or something.”

“Either way, Pepper insisted you physically be there,” Pietro says with a frown. He shifts, angling himself between Wanda and Bucky; if Steve had to guess from his stance, he’s been strictly ordered to take Bucky in and, while apologetic, is not about to let Wanda take any more of the heat. “C’mon, man. They’re waiting for you, and we’ve still gotta get you mic’d up.”

Bucky glances over at Steve, less questioningly and more like he’s about ready to handcuff himself to the bedpost before he willingly lays out their conversation to outsiders. “Why the hell are they so hellbent on pushing this fighting narrative, anyway? We’ve basically done nothing but play nice to each other this entire time. I guess, if they  _ really _ wanted to, they could clip together sound bytes of us calling each other cuss words—”

“—but that’s just ‘cause you’re a real jackass, Buck.”

“—but that’s how we  _ connect _ to each other, yes, thank you, asshat.”

“You’d be surprised how quickly dynamics change in this house.” Wanda smiles sadly. “With so many of you in an enclosed space in direct romantic competition with each other, things can deteriorate, especially as time goes on.”

“Not that they have to,” Pietro cuts in quickly as Bucky starts glowering again. “A lot of the early house rivalries you see, for example—those are gone by next week, a lot of the time! They just play it up in editing and make sure not to show them getting along, but if you look closely, you can see people laughing with each other or sitting next to each other. It’s not all bad.”

“But they’re holding out hope for you two.” Wanda shrugs, glancing quickly over her shoulder to make sure no one else is around before she lowers her voice. “Because they think you’ll both make it far, and they think it would be a good look for the show, and Steve got angry with Bucky on the first night. They think that’s the secret, with the rose ceremonies—that’s why they sent you in his direction at  _ last _ night’s rose ceremony.”

_...Damn. _ It’s almost not even the fact that they’re trying to manipulate him that blatantly—he’s basically made his peace with that. It’s the fact that he was predictable enough for it to  _ work. _

Bucky glances over at Steve, frowning. “...Alright, I’ll catch up with you two in a sec. And I’ll tell them about the conversation—but only so those vultures don’t show someone else the full footage, and I’m being as vague as possible.” He turns toward Steve, voice going softer. “That okay with you, Steve?”

“Yeah, sure.” Steve struggles to swallow for a second. 

“Hey, Pietro, Wanda, do you guys mind leaving for a second?”

“Of course.” At least both of them look guilty; Wanda’s turning the mic nervously in her hands, and Pietro practically bolts to the door, eager to get out. 

“We’ll just...yep, we’re going.”

It’s only when the door slams shut that Bucky relaxes and settles down on the mattress, yanking out his books from under Steve even as he directs the occasional dark glare at the door. For a second, it’s painfully silent.

“...I don’t want to fight with you.”

“I’m not  _ going _ to fight with you,” Bucky snaps back harshly; he winces almost simultaneously when Steve does, the crease between his eyebrows clearing as he goes to shake Steve firmly by the shoulder. “Hey, listen, I’m serious. Steve, you know I’ve never been actually angry at you, right? Even when I call you an asshole and a menace because you do stupid things as an asshole and a menace—right, not the time to make jokes. But seriously, that’s what they said that offended me most, actually. That’s part of why I’m so angry at them—because I take my friendships fucking seriously. I’m a loyal fucking person. I’m not gonna hate you just because they force your hand on a few bullshit things, you know? That’s part of it.” He chews on his lip, clearly concerned with whatever expression of mild distress is on Steve’s face. “The other part is that shit about manipulating you.”

“I mean, they  _ did, _ though. I  _ was _ angry at you, night one.” And, Steve’s realizing, that’s why he feels guilty—because Bucky’s right, he’s been right about everything. Steve keeps getting confused and blaming the wrong things because he’s quick to anger, and for some reason with this stupid show he never seems to get it right and see through the machinations as quickly as Bucky does. Bucky saw so clearly that the producers were manipulating Steve last night, saw so clearly that the producers were manipulating  _ him _ night one. All Steve did was let himself get led on and pissed off at Bucky.

“Yeah, because you didn’t  _ know _ me night one.” Bucky sighs, screwing his face up briefly before he shakes his head and pulls Steve firmly into a hug. It’s quick—they’re not that close yet, Steve’s pretty sure—but the warmth is still comforting. “Look, don’t blame yourself, okay? I get the feeling that’s kind of what you do, overthink things and blame yourself. That’s what happened yesterday, anyway, and if you do you’re in emotional turmoil and you’re playing right into their puppet master hands.” Bucky wiggles his fingers for emphasis. “You were angry at me  _ once. _ Because you didn’t know me. That’s fine—I’m angry at Brock all the time, and I’m sure he’s not this much of a raging asshole in real life.”

“He can’t be. It’s not possible,” Steve says, alarmingly watery.

“Exactly. Not possible.” Bucky taps Steve lightly on the forehead with _The Two Towers,_ depositing _Return of the King_ into Steve’s lap and leaning away to place _The Song of Achilles_ on his own nightstand. “But if you want to make it up to me, you know what you can do?”

“What?” Steve looks up at Bucky as he stands, smiling sweetly at him.

“You can  _ read the entire fucking Lord of the Rings trilogy.” _

Steve looks at the books in his lap, then back up at Bucky, who’s gazing at him with a smile still playing on his lips.

“I can do that,” he says, and yeah, he’s gonna fucking do it, he’s gonna fucking do it and he’s gonna do it  _ right, _ dammit. “I’m gonna read it. All.” Somehow, this doesn’t feel like enough, so Steve tacks on as an afterthought: “Right now.”

Bucky gazes at him a little longer, eyes narrowing as he processes the intensity and sincerity of the sentiment before he promptly bursts into laughter. It goes on for long enough that eventually, Steve starts giggling too.

“Alright, Rogers. It’s not like I’m asking you to take the ring with me to Mordor or anything.” Bucky holds a hand out mockingly, as if for Steve to clasp it, before promptly bursting into a fit of giggles again. “But by all means, go forth. Read. I’ll catch up with you after I’m done defending your honor, okay?”

“My hero,” Steve snipes back sarcastically. Bucky gives him a two-fingered salute before slamming the door behind him, leaving Steve with a mattress full of Skittles and a very important job to do.

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W3D1_SR3_C15_QS.mxf**

_ [The camera turns on in a side hallway; the shot is at an odd angle, a little too zoomed in on Bucky as Wanda attaches the mic pack to his skinny jeans. She stands back, dusting off his shoulders and putting on her headphones.] _

“Test it.”

_ [Bucky thinks for a second.] _

“Somebody once told me the world is gonna roll me, I ain’t the sharpest tool in the shed—”

“Yep, it’s working.”

“—She was looking kinda dumb with her finger and her thumb in the shape of an L on her forehead—”

“ _ Ţine-ţi limba după dinţi. _ ”

_ “ _ _ Nu prea cred _ _ , dră Maximoff.” _

_ [Wanda freezes, lips parted in shock. Bucky smirks. The camera shakes; Pietro lets out a quiet ‘ooooooh’.] _

“...We will discuss this later.”  _ [Wanda whirls around and pokes Bucky between the eyes, but she’s smiling.]  _ “Man Chat now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

_“_ _Dumneavoastră_ to you.”

_ “Da, scuze, dumneavoastr _ _ ă. _ _ ” _

_ [As they get closer to the side room where the Man Chat will take place, it becomes evident that the earlier guitar shenanigans have morphed into some bizarre, mortifying round-robin freestyle rap. Someone’s beatboxing while four men trade off; the voices get louder as they approach, and Bucky’s face becomes more and more horrified.] _

“Well, Jack was on...”

“A motorcycle ride...”

“It went alright...”

“But Sharon cried.”

_ [And it keeps going.] _

“Because she wishes—”

“She was with us.”

“It’s way more fun...”

“In the Bachelor house!”

_ [And again.] _

“And he might get a kiss—”

“—but he won’t get far!”

“He’s an itty-bitty dude—”

“Riding in a sidecar!”

_ [Bucky stops right before they round a corner, shaking his head stubbornly.] _

“And he might have game!”

“And he might be cool!”

“But to get in a sidecar?”

“He needs a stool!”

“HE NEEDS A STOOL! HE NEEDS A STOOL!”

_ [The beatboxer stops; the five men keep chanting in unison, cheering. Bucky sends the camera a helpless look, but the shot shakes with Pietro’s head; he steels himself and heads out from behind the corner. The five men are still jumping together in a team huddle, cheering and whooping, but they slowly pull apart when Bucky settles on the couch; it’s Scott, Thor, Quill, Wade, and Cameron K. They sit back down as Pietro walks the camera into an appropriate angle, capturing everyone in-frame.] _

“Do I want to know?”

“Probably not.”  _ [Bucky glances somewhere over the camera and visibly tenses.] _ “Hey, Christine.”

“Bucky.”  _ [Off-camera, the voice of the producer rings clearly despite the absence of a microphone.]  _ “Glad you could finally make it.”

“You know, I’m curious.” _ [His voice is deceptively light, but his facial expression is downright vicious.] _ “I know Jack’s on a date right now—he rode off on a motorcycle, as these men so succinctly put it—but given the subject matter, I thought Brock would just  _ jump _ at the opportunity to have a go at Steve.”

_ [All five men suddenly turn as one to look at Christine with wide eyes.] _

“Brock’s in an ITM.”  _ [She pauses; when she continues again, her voice is uncomfortable, as if she’s suddenly noticing the increased incredulous attention directed at her.] _ “Well, he’s in the queue for an ITM...”

“Wait, wait, wait.”  _ [Scott sits forward.] _ “This is about Steve? You brought us here to badmouth  _ Steve?!” _

“The  _ house dad?!” [Wade does him one better, scrambling upward so he’s straight-up standing on the couch.]  _ “You want me to badmouth our collective  _ Daddy?!” _

“Okay, I’m all for this, but please—” _ [Bucky raises a hand, giving Wade a look as he shakes his head.] _ “Don’t call him ‘Daddy’.”

“Steve’s been nothing but nice to us, and his relationship with Sharon is one of the strongest among us.”  _ [Thor looks more confused than angry.] _ “What could I have to say about him?”

“Our  _ Daddy?!” _

“Wade, shut up!”  _ [Quill sits forward, glaring at Wade, before turning that same glare to Christine and mouthing incredulously.]  _ “Our  _ Daddy? _ ”

“Not necessarily.”  _ [Christine stammers, clearly uncertain of what to do; on the other side of the camera, Wanda makes a snuffling sound that sounds suspiciously like a stifled giggle.] _ “We just want you to discuss something. Bucky had a conversation with him yesterday he wants to share with you—”

“He  _ wants _ to? Really?”

_ [As the men continue to pester Christine incredulously, Bucky smiles, puts his feet up on the ottoman, and stares directly into the camera as he addresses no one in particular.] _

“See? It pays to make your friends.”

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W3D1_SR1_C22_MC3.mxf**

 

_ [The light that bathes the room is golden, signifying that it’s far later in the day. About half of the men are lounging around the room, chit-chatting; a fair number are sitting in a circle off to the side, playing card games.] _

“One ten.”

“One jack.”

“One queen.”

“Three kings.”

“BS.”

_ [Loki flips over his cards; there are, indeed, three kings. T’Challa sighs slowly as he gathers up the entire pile in the middle of the circle.] _

“And, with all my cards gone, I  _ do _ believe that’s my game.”  _ [Loki smirks.]  _ “It’s rather entertaining, for a game with a name as foolish as  _ Bullshit. _ ”

“It’s called ‘BS’. Subtle difference.”  _ [Rhodey takes the cards from the circle and shuffles them neatly in his hands.] _ “We going again, or we playing something else…?”

“How about we play Capitalism?”

_ [Steve snorts, looking up from his whispered conversation with Bucky; they’re sitting on the couch with a veritable mountain of assorted candy piled high between them.] _ “Now  _ that’s _ a dumb game name if I ever heard one.”

“I always learned it as Rich Man, Poor Man.”

“If it’s also known as Capitalism they shoulda just called it Poor Man, Poor Man.”  _ [Steve rolls his eyes.] _

“What are you two whispering about over there?”

“Lord of the Rings.”

_ [They go back to whispering.] _

“We could play Spoons?”

“With all of us?”  _ [Bruce side-eyes Loki, who’s still smiling off his victory, and T’Challa, who is examining a pretty sharp set of fingernails.]  _ “Someone would get hurt.”

“Shithead?”

“That’s a  _ game?!” _

“That, my friend, is a dumb game name.”

“I learned it as Magic Numbers.” _ [Pause.] _ “Then again, I learned that game in middle school, so...”

“I learned it in middle school too. Didn’t stop me from learning it as ‘Shithead’.”

“Euchre?”

“Ew. How about Spades?”

“Euchre.”

_ “Spades.” _

“You two are  _ so  _ Midwestern.”  _ [Scott laughs.] _ “Euchre’s also a dumb game name, by the way.”

“I’ve got you all beat.”  _ [Peter Quill sits forward and clears his throat.] _ “Let’s play Egyptian Ratscrew.”

_ [Total silence. Everyone slowly turns to look at him.] _

“Okay, yes. That’s the dumbest game name I’ve ever heard.”  _ [Wade sounds impressed.] _ “We’re playing that. Immediately. You’re teaching me this game.”

“Hang on.”

“It involves slapping people.” _ [Quill sounds doubtful.] _ “On the hand. Someone will probably get hurt.”

“Double yes. Everything I hear about this game makes me love it more. I want all of it in my mouth forever.  _ Teach _ me.”

“Wade—”

“Shhh.  _ Shhhhh. _ I am experiencing spiritual transcendence. Let me have this.”

_ [Bruce rolls his eyes, makes the conscious decision to relocate to the couch, and closes his eyes to take a nap.] _ “I’m out.”

_ [T’Challa shrugs.]  _ “I’ll play.”

“Why not.”

“I think I’ll have to sit this one out.”

“Suit yourself.”  _ [Rhodey raises his voice.]  _ “Steve, Bucky, wanna play?”

“I’m kinda busy counting up the candy I won from all you suckers in poker.”  _ [Bucky calls back, disproportionately pleased.]  _ “There’s just so much of it, y’know?”

“I feel obligated to point out that we have unlimited jars of candy readily available in the kitchen.”

“Don’t take my victory away from me, Steve. You’re just bitter because you think you could’ve beat me if you’d played.”  _ [Bucky tosses a jellybean in the air; it lands on his shoulder.] _ “Which you couldn’t, by the way.”

“Egyptian Ratscrew is a game.”  _ [Quill’s explaining the game to Wade, who’s sitting forward eagerly and looking like a child on Christmas.] _ “It is a game of skill, reflexes, and inflicting pain on others to deter them from impeding you on the path to victory. It is a game of psychological warfare.”

_ [In a motion that’s too difficult for anyone to truly follow, Bucky stands up, vaults over the couch, somersaults past the side table, and ends up sitting perfectly cross-legged in the circle.] _

“I’m in, fuckers.”  _ [Bucky cracks his knuckles with a smirk that looks suspiciously like a smile.] _ “Let’s  _ do this shit.” _

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W3D1_MR_C30_QS.mxf**

_ [The hallway’s relatively crowded; all the men except Jack are making their way to the main room to gather for the date card, alongside a handful of crew members. Someone taps the camera; the lens swivels to reveal Wanda, who points somewhere off-screen.] _

“Look.”

_ [The camera swivels; Steve and Bucky are lagging behind. Pietro dutifully zooms in.] _

“Buck.”

“What?”

“Bucky.”

_ “What?” _

“Lord of the Rings.”

_ [Bucky starts grinning.] _

“Oh. Yeah, Steve? What about it?”

_ [It’s impossible to see Steve’s face from this angle, but he grabs Bucky’s shoulders, shaking them urgently.] _

_ “Gandalf.” _

“He’s a great character, huh?”

_ [Steve leans forward slowly until his head is against Bucky’s shoulder.]  _

_ “Oh my God.” _

“Yeah, that’s right, buddy.”  _ [Bucky pats his back comfortingly, still smiling smugly over his shoulder.]  _ “Let it out, let it out.”

_ “Jesus.” _

“I’m impressed you’ve already gotten that far, honestly.”  _ [Bucky shakes his head.] _ “Just wait until you get to Two Towers, huh?”

* * *

**ITM: Steve Rogers**

_ “How do you feel about not being called for this group date?” _

“Not being called for the group date? That was pretty disappointing.”  _ [Steve shakes his head.] _ “I really want the chance to see Sharon. After last week, there’s a lot I wanna talk to her about and a lot I want to clear up about our relationship and where we stand.”

_ “But it’s hard to get time during a group date, with all the guys.” _

“I’ve made some pretty good friends, so the prospect doesn’t bother me. If anything, I would’ve been  _ more _ uncomfortable without ‘em last time.”

_ “...Steve, I’m talking about the fact that you might get a one-on-one this week.” _

“...Oh, shit. You’re  _ right.” _

* * *

**ITM: James “Bucky” Barnes**

_ “How do you feel about getting put on another group date?” _

“I’m looking forward to this group date—I’m just looking to get to know Sharon more. I’m feeling pretty comfortable with what we have right now, especially after getting the rose last week.”

_ “How about the upcoming one-on-one?” _

“Well, who  _ hasn’t _ been called this week?”  _ [Bucky begins making mental notes, counting on his fingers and mumbling too low for the camera to properly catch.]  _ “...So the people who weren’t called for this group date are Jack, T’Challa, Peter, Steve, and Cameron. Jack’s on today’s one-on-one and T’Challa had one last week, so there’s no way they’re getting it this week. Peter’s great, but the competition’s between Steve and Cameron; they’re both pretty close to Sharon...but since Steve had the first impression rose, I’d say there’s a pretty good chance Steve’s getting the one-on-one.”

_ “Do you think Steve’s a good choice, if he’s not sure about his relationship with Sharon?” _

“You guys are still on that, are you?”

_ “It’s kind of my job.” _

“I hear ya, Pep.”  _ [Bucky smiles thinly before sitting forward, deadly serious.] _ “But let me tell you something. You’re not gonna hear a bad word about Steve from me—or from virtually any of the other guys in the house, I think. If you’re trying to generate a rivalry, it’s gonna have to be somewhere else, because Steve Rogers is as upstanding as they come.”

* * *

“Fuck me,” mutters Bucky, pacing increasingly tight circles around the bedroom. With two of their roommates eliminated and Scott and Wade out on their scheduled morning bathroom time, they’re the only ones hanging around the room. Which is good, because Bucky went right to sleep last night without choosing what to wear for the group date that starts in about fifteen minutes, which means the level of sleep-deprived panic in the room could collapse in on itself like a black hole at any given moment. Steve’s really too tired for this shit. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,  _ fuck _ me, fuck me in the ass, sweet baby Jesus—”

_ “What?” _

“Steve.” Bucky turns to him, flashing some seriously crazy eyes. Steve thinks back briefly to the hot-crazy scale from How I Met Your Mother—it was dumb and nonsensical and had some pretty cringey ramifications, sure, but also Bucky Barnes is very hot and currently very,  _ very _ crazed. “Steve. Send help.  _ Help _ me.”

“I’m  _ trying!” _ He is. He  _ really _ is, but he’s pretty much still half-asleep and he’s bad at this—that’s why usually Bucky’s busy helping him with this sort of thing, as opposed to sprinting around the bedroom with his bathrobe flapping around his ankles. “It’s not my fault your laundry looks like the shitty crossover between a high-school delinquent and a Wall Street stockbroker!”

“Fuck you, at least my clothes  _ have _ a vibe that isn’t ‘bleh’.” Bucky’s frantic circles begin expanding outward again as he practically runs around the room, vibrating all the while. On the last word, he flings his arms outward, nearly punching Steve in the nose.

“Do you own anything that isn’t leather jackets, skinny jeans, and formal suits?” Steve yanks out yet another leather jacket, throwing it at Bucky; Bucky paces right past it and the jacket ends up hitting Scott in the face right as he opens the door. Unsurprisingly, Scott closes the door right around the time Steve realizes that he also has yet to find a single pair of  _ boxers _ among the aforementioned leather jackets, skinny jeans, and formal suits. He gives a wide berth to the skinny jeans after that.

“I own my hair,” Bucky manages to mutter in a way that is somehow both haughty  _ and _ acutely mortified. “My hair is my statement piece. My hair is the best piece of clothing I own.”

“You cannot go on a date with only your  _ hair, _ you are not yet at the level of Lady Godiva.” Steve yanks out a leather jacket that looks...the exact same as all the other leather jackets, except the zipper goes asymmetrically and therefore probably makes the jacket cooler. Having decided to never touch the skinny jeans again, Bucky’s just gonna have to deal with the pair he’s currently got hanging over his headboard. “Alright, just...calm down and hang this up somewhere so it doesn’t get lost within the next ten minutes. Do you wanna borrow another one of my shirts for the inside? You can take the reject from last time.”

Bucky stares at him like he’s just suggested something  _ stupid, _ such as going out naked except for his own hair. Which is dumb, because  _ Bucky’s _ the one who suggested that.

“...Is that a yes?”

“That’s a yes, I’ll borrow a shirt, and a  _ no, _ that particular shirt is an abomination and I wasn’t kidding when I said you should burn it.” Bucky comes to a stop by Steve’s luggage and begins rooting around, being far less haphazard with Steve’s stuff than his own. Steve’s almost touched, except ‘less’ haphazard still means Steve has to dodge a pair of shoes wrapped in a plastic bag. “Yes, no, no,  _ no,  _ no, why,  _ God  _ no, hard pass, maybe—”

“Okay, my clothes aren’t  _ that _ bad.” Steve draws closer, sees four of his favorite shirts in the growing pile of rejects, and decides blissful ignorance is a better state of mind. “Seriously, is there really a difference between these leather jacket-shirt combinations? Will anyone really notice if you wear the jacket with this shirt versus, say,  _ this _ shirt?”

Bucky stops in his digging to hold up one particular shirt, sucking in a loud breath; it’s the usual button-up collared fare Bucky had previously denounced, and Steve finds himself taking a cautious step back in case Bucky decides to violently destroy it. “Oh.  _ Oh, baby. _ I could make an entire  _ look _ out of you.”

...It is the  _ exact same sort of button-up collared shirt Bucky had previously denounced. _ Steve feels a sudden surge of righteous indignation at last week’s scorched-earth destruction of his closet. “It is the  _ exact same as the other shirts.” _

“It’s got daisies,” Bucky says, like daisies are God’s fucking gift to mankind. “Oh, baby _ doll, _ you’re wasted on a man like Steve. You and me, we’re gonna make a  _ day _ of it.”

“I am  _ attractive,” _ Steve barks. “Women find me attractive. I am on the goddamn  _ Bachelorette.” _

“There is no way in hell you have ever worn this shirt.” Bucky is  _ hugging the shirt. _ “It’s too good, too pure. Yet untainted. I’m wearing this shirt right now and then I’m keeping it forever and I will fight you if you say a single word.”

That’s probably for the best, because if Steve says a single word, he’ll have to admit to Bucky that he has, in fact, never worn this shirt and would, in fact, be too scared to wear the shirt and does, in fact, only own the shirt because Natasha dragged him out and told him he needed to own  _ something _ that didn’t deserve to be pillaged and burned in a scorched-earth destruction of his closet. For a moment, his life flashes before his eyes as he watches Bucky have a moment with the shirt that is more romantic than any moment he has yet had with Sharon. Natasha will see Bucky with this shirt on television.  _ Natasha and Bucky can never meet each other. _

“What about the leather jacket?”

“Fuck leather,” says Bucky dreamily, then immediately winces. “No, I don’t mean that. I’m sorry. I fuck with leather.” He goes back to Steve’s shirt, eyes starry. “But this shirt. Steve, I would let this shirt fuck  _ me.” _

“Please stop.”

“I would let this shirt wine, dine, and sixty- _ nine _ me.”

Wade pokes his head in. “Did somebody say sixty-nine?”

_ “Stop having a sexual moment with my shirt!”  _ This entire exchange is making Steve vaguely uncomfortable and also, weirdly enough, a little turned on. It’s not exactly shameful, because it’s been two weeks now and a stiff breeze is enough to make him hard, but it’s also  _ shameful, _ because it’s just a goddamn  _ black shirt with daisies on it. _ It is far, far too early for this shit. “Take the shirt. Take the shirt,  _ please. _ Take the shirt and never give it back to me again.”

“You’re too good for him,” Bucky sniffs dramatically at the fucking inanimate shirt, hanging it reverently up on a hook and tossing the leather jacket back into his suitcase. “You know what you would look great with? The  _ cold weather _ outfit I packed.”

“You packed a cold weather outfit?” Somewhere in all the leather jackets and skinny jeans and formal suits?

“It’s somewhere in there.” Bucky flaps his hand vaguely in that direction, still staring up at the shirt. “Among other things, it’s a white fleece-lined jacket. I was gonna wear it over a black shirt, but  _ this. _ This would be my magnum opus.”

“I get it, you wanna fuck my shirt.”

“I wanna  _ get _ fucked by this shirt.”

“Charming.” Steve strides over to the bedside table, picks up Bucky’s brush, and shakes it. “So, do you still want me to help you with your statement piece, or…?”

“What?”

“Your  _ hair, _ Bucky.” Air-quotes seem appropriate at this juncture. “The ‘best statement piece you own’. That you would never trust me with, apparently, if it weren’t the current state of emergency.” That state apparently being that Bucky refuses to try and brush his hair without a mirror, just like he refuses to do  _ anything _ involving his hair without a mirror. 

“I mean, do we  _ really _ own anything, other than ourselves?” 

“You own my shirt now,” Steve points out as they settle themselves into their usual positions on the bed. “You own that shirt because I never want to own that shirt ever again, not after you defiled it.”

“I don’t own that shirt. It chose me.” Bucky hums, eyeing his jean options and letting Steve concentrate on brushing his hair at the right angle for all of  _ two seconds _ before the man jolts, suddenly turning and screaming. “Shit! Undershirt.  _ Black _ undershirt.”

“...What?”

“SCOTT!”

Scott opens the door and immediately takes two big steps back, terrified by the sheer force of Bucky’s will that’s currently no doubt exuding from their room. “...Yes?”

“Get Peter Quill here. Quickly. It’s an emergency.”

Steve shakes his head rapidly behind Bucky’s back.

“...Right, I’ll let him know.” Scott gives them the stink-eye all the way until the door’s closed.

“And tell him to bring his black undershirt!” Bucky yells at the closed door, leg jittering nervously as he sniffs and tosses aside a pair of navy blue jeans. “Monochromatic, that’s the way to go when the daisies make enough of a statement on their own...”

“Listen, I have to ask—am I missing something with the daisies?”

Thankfully, Peter Quill opens the door before Bucky progresses from staring incredulously at Steve to full-on strangling Steve.

“Hey, you guys.” He blinks, clearly still halfway asleep. Steve relates a little too hard. “...Bucky, why aren’t you dressed yet?”

“Is that the black undershirt you wore on the stripper date?” Bucky practically launches himself off the bed as he runs to his bedside table. “I need to borrow it for this one. How much?”

“Forty-two,” Quill says immediately, hurling the undershirt into Steve’s stomach and holding out his hands.  _ Oof, _ thinks Steve, staring up at the underside of his mattress. The one he could be sleeping in right now, he thinks. He is too  _ tired _ for this shit.

“You drive a hard bargain, Quill.” Bucky yanks open one of the drawers and begins rummaging inside a paper envelope. “How much less if I throw in a handful Reese’s Pieces?”

“How many is a handful?”

“I don’t know, like ten?”

“That’ll take you down to twenty-nine.” Quill leans over, peeking into the envelope. “Ooh, throw in the Snickers and I’ll go for twenty.”

“Really? Score.”

“I don’t want ‘em in orange, I want ‘em in cherry.”

_ “What?!” _

...Hang on a second. “You’re not talking about money,” Steve realizes belatedly. Quill and Bucky both turn toward Steve and stare at him like he’s doing something stupid, like going full Castaway in the absence of communication with the outside world and adapting candy as a bartering system. Which is dumb, because  _ they’re the ones doing it. _ “You’re talking about  _ candy.” _

“..Yes?”

“...” They keep staring at him. “So  _ why?!” _

“Wade?” Quill keeps staring at him, even as Bucky loses interest in Steve and starts hassling Quill with an expression Steve’s only ever seen on suburban soccer moms at yard sales. Soon, it’s a virtually unintelligible mess of Brooklyn and some vaguely Slavic language. Quill, on the other hand, keeps trying to shove English words into Steve’s earholes. It’s too  _ early _ for this shit. “The candy shortage? Armageddon? Fallout 4?”

...All Steve knows about Fallout 4 is that the world is post-apocalyptic. Is he supposed to assume that the word  _ literally ended _ while he was asleep?

“For Christ’s sake, Steve, he’s talking about when Wade ate all our poker winnings last night after Egyptian Ratscrew and nearly burned down the house on an extended sugar high that we’re all relatively certain he’s trying to ride until he gets eliminated,” Bucky snaps, accent thick. “All we have left now is a lot of bottle caps.”

...Right. Steve remembers watching Sam play some game from the franchise on his phone, where he got really intense about resource allocating in a bomb shelter with bottle caps as currency. But what does candy have to do with bottle caps?

“The  _ candy _ Bottle Caps, Steve,” Bucky says impatiently, showing Steve the envelope; there are a handful of assorted chocolates and hershey kisses, but the majority of the envelope is filled with grainy, color-coded tablets. “Apparently Wade doesn’t like them, because ‘why eat fizzy candies that imitate soda when you can just drink soda’, he said before immediately downing four sodas. Five cherries to a grape, five grapes to an orange, five oranges to a coke, five cokes to a root beer.”

Steve is not an optimist, but he tries very hard not to think that this house will be going full Lord of the Flies before the week is out. “And you all came up with this while I was...” He glances at Bucky, who swipes his finger over his throat frantically, to the three thick fantasy novels stacked innocently under an abandoned pair of khakis beside his suitcase. “...sleeping?”

“Well, it’s directly proportional to the amount of each flavor in circulation. People keep eating their root beers.” Bucky turns back to Quill. “Which reminds me, I don’t just have  _ fifteen cherry-flavored bottle caps lying around.” _ He shakes the envelope threateningly. “I traded all of mine up before I went to bed! Just take my damn money and ask around for cherries later!”

“Cherry’s my favorite flavor,” Quill argues back, as Steve puts his head down and tries not to think about how this is his life now. “I’ve already swapped most of my stash out. No deal.”

“Would you consider taking Skittles,” Steve asks, casually nudging the entire jar of Darkside Skittles Bucky left behind in his sorting spree and Steve ended up eating while reading last night a little further under his bed. On the off-chance he’s not hallucinating this entire exchange, it looks like they’re about to become a pretty hot commodity. Quill, however, rolls his eyes.

“Nah, not a fan. So, do we have a deal or not?”

“I will  _ have that undershirt,” _ Bucky growls low in his throat, shifting back into a predatory stance. “Do you see that shirt over there?”

“The one with the daisies?” Quill looks over his shoulder briefly. “It’s awesome. Are you wearing it today?”

“Did daisies become a big deal during the nuclear apocalypse I apparently missed?” Really, what is  _ with the goddamn daisies? _

“That shirt demands satisfaction.” Bucky makes an attempt to grab the shirt.  _ “I _ demand satisfaction.”

“Happiness is worth more than an undershirt,” Peter Quill says sagely, unaware that he is seconds away from being murdered because happiness may be worth more than an undershirt but extreme and imminent death is definitely not. Fortunately, before Bucky can do something drastic like tackle Quill off the balcony, Cameron Klein peeks his head into the room. All three people immediately whip their heads around; surprisingly, Cameron remains entirely calm.

“Hey, Steve, Bucky, I just wanted to catch you guys before the group date.” He pauses. “Am I...interrupting something?”

“No,” Bucky says. “‘Course not,” Quill says.  _ “Thank _ you,” Steve mutters, from where he thinks he’s getting a tension headache.

“Right, so, I overheard you guys talking about Lord of the Rings yesterday, and I’m pretty sure one of you actually has it with you?”

“...No,” says Steve, which is a bold-faced lie.

“...Sure, Steve.” Cameron shakes his head, blinking. “Anyway, it’s a group-date, so no one’ll be here and I’m basically gonna go out of my mind with boredom. Do you mind if I borrow something for the day? Literally any of them—I’ve read the series too many times, but I also don’t want my brain to...murder itself so it has something to do?”

Steve stares instinctively at Bucky. Bucky stares critically at Cameron for a moment.

Then he turns to Steve, flips him the bird with both hands, stalks over to his suitcase, and tosses the cover off with a loud  _ thump. _

“Welcome to Bucky Barnes’ Travelling Library.” He sends Steve a look that very clearly indicates that he will be deconstructed and salvaged for parts if he says a single word. “You can check out a book for fifteen caps. I take payment exclusively in cherry-flavor.”

“Weird flex,” Cameron comments mildly, fishing in his pocket. To his eternal credit, he doesn’t even look  _ surprised _ at the fact that Bucky’s carting around an entire suitcase of what essentially amounts to extreme amounts of contraband. “Hm...huh, I’ll take this one.”

“Wouldn’t have pegged you for military history, but hey, your call.” Bucky takes the candy from Cameron, plucks another five red tablets out of his envelope, and shoves them blindly towards Quill as Cameron works some peeling blue-covered book with an old warplane on the cover out from the fifth layer of what Steve can officially only think of as Bucky Barnes’ Travelling Library.

“I’m more interested in the strategic air power—topically relevant to my old job.” Cameron flips through the book briefly before nodding firmly to himself and snapping it back shut, tucking it into his light jacket. “Right, thanks. I’ll return this later?”

“Two weeks, and-slash-or whenever you get eliminated. If you keep it longer, I will hunt you down for late fees. If you take it home with you, I will hunt you down and skin you.” Somehow, Bucky manages to say all this in a sugary-sweet voice. “Quill, are you gonna take your fucking caps or am I gonna have to start throwing them at you?”

“Hey, is this by the same dude who wrote _Ready Player One?”_ By now, Quill’s completely ignoring Bucky in favor of poking through the crammed suitcase; Bucky scowls, digging a Bottle Cap out of his envelope and popping it into his mouth, chewing furiously. “Can I borrow it?”

“You can borrow what you want, just  _ tell me if I can use the damn undershirt.” _

“Oh! Yeah, yeah, sure. You can keep your candy, too.” Quill grabs _Armada_ and half-shoves it into his pocket before closing the lid of the suitcase carefully. Bucky eyes the book for half a second, clearly makes the conscious decision that that particular book isn’t worth making a fuss over, and stalks over to Steve so he can rip the undershirt right out from his dead hands.

“What the hell am  _ I _ going to do with twenty cherry-flavored Bottle Caps?”

“Well, I don’t want ‘em anymore.”

“I don’t want them either! If they’re  _ your  _ favorite flavor, just trade me up to oranges or something!”

“I’ve gotta go hide this in my room before producers come looking for you.” Quill glances briefly at his empty wrist, averting his eyes from an increasingly murderous Bucky Barnes as he makes a beeline for the door. “See you after your group date?”

“QUILL!”

“You know, you should probably just get dressed at this point,” Steve comments to literally no-one from where he’s actively contemplating whether it’s worth it to get back onto his bunk or if he should just pass out, right here in Bucky’s bed. 

On his left, Bucky’s standing in the doorway, hurling cherry Bottle Caps at Quill’s retreating back. There’s not a chance in hell he’s listening.

“Also, if you’re gonna put on an undershirt, it’s gonna fuck up your hair.”

“Mother _ fucker!” _ Bucky slams the door so hard that Steve quite literally leaps out of the bed, flinging Quill’s undershirt towards the source of the sound; Bucky snatches it out of the air and then just  _ yanks his bathrobe off,  _ leaving it on the floor. Thankfully, he owns at least  _ one _ pair of boxers that he’s currently wearing. “Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck _ me—”

“Are you talking to the shirt again?”

Bucky doesn’t answer, instead yanking the undershirt on over his head and—there’s no other way to put it—launching himself like a hellcat toward the jeans hanging on his bedpost. Instead, he launches himself directly into Steve, who is too tired react properly by doing things like getting out of the way or screaming bloody murder.

As Bucky football-tackles Steve onto his own mattress and immediately uses his stomach as a launchpad to get himself upright and haul his skinny jeans on, Steve has to ponder the series of events that led him to this moment in his life.

“Okay, okay, I’ll be fine.” Bucky’s hopping around the room, struggling with the buttons on his jeans as he toes on a pair of intimidating leather shoes and shucks on the daisy shirt. “I just—Steve, can you help me finish up my hair while I button this up?”

“Yeah, sure,” says Steve, because he’s basically lost all control over his own life at this point anyway. He somehow manages to dig the comb out of where it’s gotten lost in the sheets, hauling himself up blearily and stumbling over to where Bucky’s standing. It takes a while, but by the time the shirt’s cleared, effortlessly casual with the top three buttons undone, Steve’s had the time to switch out the comb for Bucky’s favorite brush and gone through a second time. 

“How do I look?”

Steve looks.

“Attractive,” he admits. Bucky’s a knockout, even with the slightly frazzled look in his eyes; those jeans could kill a man. “I can see why you liked the daisy shirt so much. It’s a good look on you.”

“Damn right, it’s a good look. No take backs.” Bucky sighs in relief, like he doesn’t know he’s hot shit, and smoothes down the wrinkles as he readjusts the collar. “..Hm. I wonder if I have time to get on some eyeliner—”

“Eyeliner?”

“BARNES, I WILL START THIS DATE WITHOUT YOU!”

“Aaaaand that’s my cue.” Bucky tosses a salute at Steve before throwing himself once more at the door. Really, it’s a miracle he hasn’t injured himself at least five times this morning. “See ya later, Steve! Don’t eat my money!”

Somewhere out there, people yell a little more. There’s the sound of Bucky and Pepper sniping relentlessly at each other, some indistinguishable voices muttering as heavy equipment moves around, the clatter of footsteps—and then, suddenly, it’s quiet. There’s still a skeleton crew in the house, obviously, and there are three more men wandering the hallways somewhere out there, sure. But for the first time since Steve’s gotten into this house, he’s actually  _ alone. _

And he can’t even  _ enjoy  _ it, because the entire morning rush has gotten him too amped up to sleep.

“It’s too _ early _ for this shit,” Steve whines to the empty room, as he sits back down on Bucky’s bed and digs out the Skittles and his copy of The Two Towers. “It’s  _ too fucking early.” _

* * *

**ITM: Sharon Carter**

_ [Sharon’s standing in front of what looks like a chain link fence, a racing track, and a set of stands. She’s wearing what looks like a bright red tracksuit with black bands around her biceps, each emblazoned with a white logo. A plastic banner behind her reads ‘Bashelorette’.] _

“For this date, I thought I’d take the opportunity to try something I’ve always wanted to do.”  _ [She claps her hands excitedly.] _ “It’s a demolition derby!”

* * *

**ITM: Wade Wilson**

“YOU MEAN WE GET TO CRASH CARS INTO EACH OTHER? ON  _ PURPOSE?!” _

* * *

**ITM: Bruce Banner**

“I mean, we’ve all been locked up together in that house, so...”  _ [He shakes his head, smiling guiltily.] _ “It’ll be nice to channel that aggression somewhere.”

* * *

**ITM: James “Rhodey” Rhodes**

“I’m used to maneuvering vehicles. What I’m  _ not _ used to is crashing them. Especially not on purpose.”  _ [He blinks, tugging uncomfortably on his own identical tracksuit.]  _ “I’m sorry, what exactly  _ is _ this again?”

* * *

**ITM: James “Bucky” Barnes**

_ [Bucky’s standing in front of the same race track, wearing the same standard gear. He’s beaming excitedly from ear-to-ear.] _

“Okay, okay, okay!”  _ [He claps his hands.] _ “A demolition derby’s basically a type of motorsport. Everyone gets a scrap vehicle, right? Now, all the dangerous stuff’s been sorted out—the glass is gone, the flammables are gone, the doors and trunk are all welded shut, anything that could seriously injure you’s been taken care of—and you can decorate the exterior however you want. Then they put all these cars into a pit, and essentially just let you  _ have at it.” _

_ “Have at it?” _

“Was I not clear?”  _ [He smirks dangerously—and really, it’s unfairly attractive.] _ “You just crash your cars into each other until you can’t anymore—the battery goes, the motor blows up, the car overheats. Last car standing is the winner.”

_ “You seem excited.” _

“I  _ run my own autoshop. _ Do you have any idea how many times I just wanna take a wrench to a car and destroy the damn thing? I love them, but  _ my God.” [He rocks on the balls of his feet, giddy as a child on Christmas.] _ “I’m gonna take some spray paint, make the most obnoxious damn car possible, and then I’m gonna  _ ram the shit out of all my friends.  _ That came out wrong, but you get the idea. I can’t wait to—hm? What’s that?”

* * *

**ITM: Sharon Carter**

“No, I don’t think so. What?”  _ [She blinks, then sighs.] _ “No, I don’t think this date is gonna give Bucky an advantage. I like him and all, but in the end, the demolition derby isn’t about finding the person who can handle a car the best. Today’s just about letting loose and having fun.”

_ “So what  _ are _ you looking for today, then?” _

“I’ve got a lot of guys here, you know?”  _ [Sharon shrugs, shaking her head.] _ “I guess I’m just hoping someone stands out for the right reasons.”

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W3D2_HW3_C01_QS.mxf**

_ [Half of the shot is taken up by a wall; the other half is filming one of the side-rooms. The cameraman’s shaking with virtually silent giggles. From somewhere off-screen, Wanda hisses.] _

“What the hell are you doing?”

_ [The cameraman starts.] _

“Shhh! Look!”

_ [In the side-room, Steve is lying on the couch with his head propped up on an armrest, holding  _ The Two Towers _ at arms length; Cameron K. is curled up with his legs under him on the armchair,  _ The Command of the Air _ in the crook of his knee; Quill’s lying belly-down on the floor,  _ Armada _ open at an angle. All three of them silently flip a page in unison.] _

“Pietro, you know they’re not allowed to—”

“I know.”

“Where they hell are they  _ getting _ all these books?”

“I  _ know.” _

_ [A door opens somewhere, and the unmistakable voice of producer Maria Hill rings through the house.] _ “Cameron K., Peter, Steve, Jack, T’Challa!”

_ [All three heads fly up at once. The voice gets closer.] _

“Where are you guys? We’re gonna film some ITM’s!”

_ [All three men look at each other in immediate panicked unison. Steve claps his book closed, prying up the cushion under his ass and shoving it underneath; Cameron jerks his knee upward and the book topples over, glancing off the arm of the chair and landing neatly in Quill’s outstretched hand. Quill closes his book, slams Cameron’s on top, and slaps the stack open-handed; it slides across the carpet and comes to a stop under a side-table right as Maria walks into the room.] _

“Oh, good, the three of you are here. While I have you, I’d like to get an Man Chat speculating which of you will get tomorrow’s one-on-one. Let me just get Wanda and Pietro...”

_ [The walkie-talkie on Pietro’s shoulder crackles to life; the camera spins as the two immediately take off running down the hall as silently as possible, ignoring the transmission until they’re safely in another room. Wanda pants angrily, hands on her knees, and glares toward where Pietro stands behind the camera.] _

“We’re not doing that again.”

“Sure, whatever you say.”

“...Should we tell a producer?”

“What?! No!”  _ [Pietro laughs.] _ “Books?  _ This many books? _ Someone’s got a drug ring in the house.”

“...I’ve never seen anything like it.” _[Wanda straightens, thinking. A reluctant smile fights its way onto her face.]_ “Alright, fine. Let’s see how far this goes.”   


“It’s gotta be a producer, right? No one’s sneaking this much material in with their suitcases.”

“Well, you never know...”

* * *

“—and I see the steam and the water pouring out of my hood, and I’m not an  _ idiot, _ that means the radiator’s gone, right?” Bucky’s kneeling upright on the bed above Steve, a kneecap planted firmly on each side of Steve’s legs as he smacks one hand into the other, presumably in case Steve doesn’t understand what ‘crashing one car into another’ means and needs the visual for help. Steve just smiles and nods, shifting  _ The Two Towers _ off of where it’s resting on his chest. He doesn’t think he’ll be getting back to it anytime soon. “So I know I’ve got, what, five to ten minutes left in this car before it overheats and I’m out. There’s no way I’m gonna win, obviously, but I look over and I swear to God, the heavens fucking open up in that moment and show me a straight path right to Brock’s car—it was  _ terrible, _ Steve, you shoulda seen it, he basically spray-painted an anatomically impossible naked lady on both ends, and that girl is staring me  _ right in the face, _ begging me to put her out of her misery.”

“And?” Steve grins, unable to fight the smile off his face as Bucky’s eyes gleam excitedly in the lowlight.

“What do you think? I throw that motherfucker in reverse, slam my foot on the pedal, and the last thing that asshole sees before I fuck up his bumper is my middle finger in the air telling him bye, boy, bye.” Bucky laughs brightly, hair a tangled mess around his face like a cloud. He looks wild like this, untamed, every bit his bad boy image. Steve has to admit, it’s a good look on him; he can see the appeal. ”You wanna know the kicker? His engine  _ goes before mine.” _ Bucky sighs contentedly, relaxing and kneeling a little lower so that he’s almost straddling Steve’s knees. “You should’ve seen it, Steve. I swear, I thought he was gonna get out of his car right then and there, drag me out of mine, and try to beat me up in the dirt. He  _ did _ try to open his door, except Wade clipped him before he could get it all the way and then he remembered that death is a thing.”

“Man, that must’ve been cathartic.” Is it just him, or does he sound a little wistful? “It almost makes me wish I’d been on that group date, just so I could see that arrogant asshole taken down a peg or two.”

“Well, hey, one of us had to stay here and keep the stragglers in line.” Bucky pats his head soothingly and just a little faux-condescendingly; Steve doesn’t stop himself from bristling and scowling, but Bucky just laughs again. “Speaking of which, did anything interesting happen? Yelling, tears, secret girlfriends?” Bucky lowers his voice. “No one fucked up my books, did they?”

The mental image of Quill literally slapping Bucky’s book across the floor flashes before his eyes. “No, all quiet on the western front.” He jerks his legs a little under Bucky. “How about you, though? Anything interesting happen on the group date?”

“Well, Wade won the demolition derby...obviously.” Bucky takes the hint and gets off of Steve, unbuttoning the daisy shirt as he goes—good, his leg was starting to fall asleep. “Night portion was fine. My time with Sharon was pretty good; I mentioned that I wanted to try and treat things like a normal date, which kind of got twisted somehow into us asking each other weird questions people  _ apparently _ ask each other on first dates, which, c’mon—”

“Oh, what, because your usual first date involved putting out?”

“You’re  _ really _ gonna call me out like that?” Bucky pauses his movements to glare at Steve through his hair. “Anyway, it was pretty awkward—they were trying to use it to control the conversation, you could tell—but Sharon knew it too and we ended up making the best of it—and it’s not like they could tell us what to do  _ forever, _ so things worked out.” 

“Sounds nice.” Steve sits up. “So, who got the group date rose?”

“Thor.” Bucky bites his lip as he struggles with the buttons, about halfway down. “So that makes him a definite frontrunner too, huh?”

“Maybe. Honestly, I try not to think about it.” And it’s true; if Steve thinks too much about the way he’s living in this house in correlation to his relationship with Sharon, he starts second-guessing himself and getting a cluster headache. “Anyway, that date sounds  _ great. _ So much better than stripping, anyway.”

“Honestly? It was about the same for me.” Bucky finally gets to the last few buttons and hisses, scowling and shimmying his arms out of the shirt so that it falls around his legs. He picks it up, tossing it into the suitcase, and gets the undershirt off in one swift motion. “Mainly, I’m just disappointed that it’s the  _ same damn amount of waiting.” _

“...Explain.”

“You know how on the first group date, during the night portion, we spent most of our time sitting around that dumb fireplace just talking or waiting to get our time with Sharon or talk to our producers or whatever?” Bucky throws himself back onto the bed, sitting next to Steve and stretching out his legs with a sigh. “I figured it was just because it was the first date and we were getting into the groove of things, but Jesus Christ, it turns out  _ most _ of reality television is just waiting until your character arc is relevant or whatever.” He rolls his eyes. “Who knew being a reality star involved so much boredom? And that boredom could be so fucking  _ tiring?” _

It’s probably not the appropriate time to bring up how often he was in the hospital as a kid, so Steve settles for wincing sympathetically and nudging Bucky in the shoulder. “I’m sorry, that sounds like bullshit.”

“It  _ was,” _ Bucky insists emphatically. “Why are  _ you _ still awake, anyway? You didn’t have to wait up, Rogers; we both know these dates go on far longer than is humane.” His eyes fall to  _ The Two Towers, _ lying innocently closed on the covers. “Did you get sucked into the story? I know the feeling, trust me.”

“Well, there’s that.” Steve picks up the book, turning it over in his hands once before he lets it fall open to the page he has bookmarked. “And then there’s also...”

Nestled neatly between the pages to keep his place is the next one-on-one date card. Bucky snatches it up, holding it up to the light as he reads it.

“‘Steve. Let’s find the secret to love. Sharon.’” He smiles, lowering it and punching Steve in the shoulder.  _ “And _ there’s a heart. Shit, congratulations!”

“Yes, because I’m sure Peter Parker the friendly production assistant put a  _ lot _ of thought into that heart when he wrote out this card for me.” Steve rolls his eyes.  

“C’mon, you’re gonna get an  _ entire day _ with your girlfriend— _ and _ you’ve been wanting this since that misunderstanding last week. You could stand to lighten up a  _ little.” _ Bucky throws himself backward, sighing. “Man, I’m gonna be  _ bored _ tomorrow, though.”

“You mean you’re finally gonna be able to finish reading your book, is what you mean.” Steve picks up  _ The Song of Achilles _ from where it’s hiding under Bucky’s pillow and taps him lightly on the nose with it; Bucky picks it up with a sigh. “You mean you’re gonna miss having me around to make you half-decent food, is what you mean.”

“Joke’s on you—there’s a freezer pizza Pepper got me last week, and I’ve been saving it for someone special.” Bucky flutters his eyelashes up at Steve. “Me, myself, and I.”

“Asshole.”

“Hypocrite. What happened to ‘you need to sleep early before your date, Bucky, and conveniently forget about choosing an outfit so that you can wake up early and panic about it tomorrow’?” The face Bucky makes as he thinks back could curdle milk. “Would not recommend, by the way. Is that why you’re up, because you need me to save you from your own wardrobe? Because I hate to break it to you, but with the library and all, I didn’t have space to bring much myself.”

“Well...” Well,  _ yes, _ he was kind of waiting for Bucky to help him pick clothing, but he’s not about to  _ tell _ him that. “Actually, I was packing.” He shrugs. “You know, because if I don’t get the rose, I’m gonna get sent home and stuff.”

“Yeah,  _ right.”  _ Bucky has the audacity to  _ scoff, _ the asshole. “We all know you’re not going home, Steve, barring something truly heinous like a secret family in Hungary. Rejection is for lesser mortals, not you.”

“Hey!” Technically, this  _ is _ his first real date with Sharon. “I’m  _ allowed _ to be nervous!”

“Well, sure you are. But going home shouldn’t be the thing you’re nervous about.” Bucky wedges the date card back into Steve’s book, patting it tenderly and handing it back to Steve as he stands and tosses his own book into the drawer of his bedside table. “If anything, what you should be nervous about is looking like a disaster on national television. What monstrosity have you brought me to work with today?”

Steve  _ wants _ to protest, but the voice of Natasha in his head chews him out so thoroughly it feels like she’s there, physically digging her fingernails into his scalp, so he shuts his mouth. “The card said casual clothing, so I was thinking I could just wear a—”

“No.”

“I haven’t even  _ said _ anything yet!”

“Is it the bright red turtleneck hanging on the hanger behind you?”

...Yes. “No.”

“I don’t believe you.” Bucky takes the book he _just put_ in Steve’s hands back out of Steve’s hands, tapping him on the head with it before putting it alongside his in the drawer. “Now, go get in line for the bathroom and get to bed before Wade and Scott come back from the kitchen. You are gonna borrow my leather jacket, you are gonna wear it for the entire date tomorrow, and _you. Will. Like. It._ ” He holds out his hand; Steve takes it and lets Bucky haul him up. “Now say ‘thank you, Bucky, for stopping me and all my stupid’.”

“Thank you, Bucky, for stopping me and all my stupid.” He only half means it.

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W3D3_HW4_C12_QS.mxf**

_ [Pietro and Wanda are talking in one of the side-rooms. Pietro’s camera lies stationary on the table next to them, capturing both of them haphazardly in shot.] _

“It’s gotta be Steve.”

“My money’s on Thor.”  _ [Wanda sucks on her bottom lip, thinking.] _ “T’Challa might be up there, he had a one-on-one last week.”

“So did Stephen Strange, and we both know that won’t go anywhere.”  _ [Pietro taps his chin with his pencil.] _ “Cameron Klein?”

“Maybe, if he gets a one-on-one soon.”  _ [Wanda stands up suddenly, eyes sharp.] _ “Hang on, where’s Bruce going?”

_ [The two of them glance at each other, then nod; Pietro grabs the camera, hoisting it onto his shoulder, and the two creep out quietly into the hallway. At the end of it, the open door reveals a sliver of the blue bedroom once more; Bucky glances up with mild interest as Bruce blinks at him.] _

“Where’s Steve?”

“He left for the one-on-one a while ago.”  _ [Bucky blinks hard, glancing around.] _ “Actually, I think we’re gonna be called for ITM’s and chats about last night’s group date soon. Why, what’s up?”

“Someone heard he had Lord of the Rings.” _ [Bruce runs a hand through his hair, taking off his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose.]  _ “I haven’t read the third book yet, and I figured now’d be as good a time as any...”

_ [He trails off uncertainly. Bucky sits up a little straighter, biting his lip. From the camera’s side, Wanda whispers.] _

“Wait, does that mean Steve is the one who’s got all the books…?”

_ [Bucky stands abruptly, strides over to his suitcase, and flips it open. Both Pietro and Wanda suck in their breaths.] _

_ “No!” _

“It’s  _ Bucky?!” _

“I’ll give it to you for a root beer cap and three oranges.”  _ [Bucky roots around briefly before pulling out a book; even from this distance, it’s easy to see that it’s the Return of the King.] _ “...Actually, tell you what, just let me be the first to use your iron before rose ceremonies and we’ve got a deal.”

“Yeah?”  _ [Bruce takes the book.] _ “You don’t need the caps?”

“I only had space for one proper suit jacket, so I gotta make it count. I can’t just go borrowing people’s stuff every week.”  _ [Bucky stretches, turning back to his bed. He lies back down, pulling a book of his own out from under his pillow; Pietro makes a squealing noise, and the following sound makes it pretty clear that Wanda slaps a hand over his mouth.] _ “You’d better hide that before the next rose ceremony. Have it back in two weeks or whenever you get eliminated, whichever comes first.”

“You got it.”  _ [Bruce nods to him in thanks, turning to go; the camera spins as Pietro and Wanda run for a side room, slamming the door shut behind them.] _

“Oh my God.”  _ [Pietro’s voice is awestruck.] _ “Oh my God, Barnes is the dealer.”

“I wouldn’t have pegged him as the type to sacrifice closet space for books.”

“Forget that, Wanda.” _ [Pietro lifts the camera and turns it to face Wanda, who does not look nearly as impressed as Pietro sounds.] _ “Who cares about that when  _ Bucky Barnes is the fucking dealer?!” _

* * *

**ITM: Sharon Carter**

“Steve and I clicked instantly—we just had that immediate attraction to each other.”  _ [Sharon bites her lip, thinking.] _ “I’ve seen that he’s a good man, that he’s willing to help the other people in the house and does his best with everything put before him. I’d like to see if he can be more active, though—he’s been uncomfortable every time I’ve seen him, and I want to see him be more assertive and get in his element. Relationships are all about trust and communication; when we get into these situations, I want to know that we can rely on each other. That’s why I chose the escape room today.”

_ “Well, that’s why  _ I _ chose the escape room  _ for _ you.” _

“Very funny, Phil.”  _ [Sharon smiles.] _

* * *

**ITM: Steve Rogers**

“I’m excited to do this escape room with Sharon.”

_ [He hesitates. Off-screen, his producer murmurs something, and his gaze goes steely as he raises his head to look at her.] _

“Honestly, Pepper? I just wanted to get some time to talk to her personally. That’s what I wanted out of this date.”

_ [He pauses, listening, and breathes out a frustrated sigh as he runs a hand through his hair.] _

“I just—I expected to  _ feel... _ closer, you know? We don’t really  _ talk  _ or anything, we just do crazy activities. I was hoping for a one-on-one that wouldn’t be this...structured. I was really hoping I could just get to know the person I’m dating."

_ [Pepper shifts, and her voice comes a little more clearly into focus.] “I know it’s frustrating, Steve. Trust me.” _

“Do you?”  _ [He eyes her skeptically.] _ “Do you  _ really _ know how frustrating this is?”

_ “I know you feel like you’re not getting time to just connect with Sharon, but that’s what the night portion’s for.” [Her voice is placating.] “Sharon put you on this date for a reason, Steve. She obviously thinks this can go somewhere and wants to spend her time getting to know you better. Have faith in her. I’m sure she’ll talk to you tonight.” _

“...Yeah, you’re right.”  _ [He nods slowly, standing a little straighter.]  _ “A relationship’s a two-way street, after all. We’re equals in this.”

_ [Pepper pauses, so quickly it’s hard to notice.] “...Of course. Now, why don’t you try this again?” _

“...I’m so glad I got this one-on-one today.”  _ [He smiles.] _ “This escape room’s gonna be a chance to see her in her element, and it’ll be a chance to see how well we work together as a team. I’m just hoping we’ll really connect with each other throughout the day. Sharon’s truly an amazing woman, and I really think our relationship could take off.”

* * *

Ironically enough, they bring him what he’s pretty sure is a frozen oven pizza.

“Okay, so let me get this straight,” Steve says as he stares at the piece of pizza on the plastic plate in front of him. It looks pretty miserable, sitting in a pool of its own spreading grease. “We don’t eat the food they put on the table during one-on-one dates.”

“No,” says Pepper.

_ “No one _ eats the food they put on the table during one-on-one dates.”

_ “No,” _ says Pepper.

“Instead, they go out of their way to find an oven, buy a freezer pizza, put that freezer pizza in the oven, and run that pizza over to us so we can eat freezer pizza off-camera. While wasting a  _ perfectly good, _ extremely fancy...I don’t know, steak or something.”

_ “NO,”  _ says Pepper, clearly at her wit’s end. “For God’s sake, Steve, where would you even get the idea—why would we  _ go out of the way _ to get you a freezer pizza? This is just a  _ normal pizza _ from the nearest California Pizza Kitchen. It’s not a  _ freezer pizza.” _

She says it like the idea is crazy. Or at least, like the idea is crazier than  _ setting out fancy food on fancy plates on a fancy table _ so that viewers at home can maintain plausible deniability that it’s all actually a date, without actually having people eat the food.

“Look, you’re smart, Steve. This isn’t rocket science.” Pepper sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. The funny thing is, with the number of things to remember and moving parts to keep track of, sometimes it sure  _ feels _ like being on this show is rocket science. “The food on the table’s just for show, because we want to film you  _ talking, _ not eating. You’re eating dinner beforehand, right here.”

“...Okay, I get it on an abstract level, but why not just use...I don’t know, plastic food or something? That you can reuse?” Steve feels the familiar ripple of righteous indignation down his spine and remembers Sam very sternly telling him to grin, bear it, and count the number of boxing sessions they’ll attend when he gets back to Brooklyn. The number’s kind of scarily high, at this point. “Food waste is kind of an ongoing problem, you know.”

“I know, but no one wants to eat the food by the time it gets cold. And we can’t use plastic food because...well, it doesn’t look real.” Pepper shakes her head. “If you want something different next time, let me know. It’s not like we’re trying to starve you out or anything—you can try the food if you  _ want _ to. But think about it. Do you  _ really _ want to sit there silently next to Sharon and let the cameras film you guys  _ eating?” _

He thinks about it. And then he thinks about the other possibilities, like eating  _ while _ Sharon is talking and the cameras are filming.

“...Point taken.” At least he has an answer for Natasha, who’s been speculating that the food on the table has just been the same plate of stale lasagna for the past eight years. “So, what did you come here to do, other than give me pizza from...California Pizza Kitchen?”

He makes a silent mental note not to touch the pizza, even though he knows he’ll regret that when it’s five more hours into filming and he hasn’t had food. He makes a further silent mental note to grin, bear it, and count the number of classic New York pizzas he’ll be dragging Sam and Nat out to when he gets back to Brooklyn. So many. _ All of them. _ He’ll bring Bucky, too, after Bucky sees the monstrosities he has to deal with on his one-on-one.

“I just wanted to go over a few last minute refreshers—don’t look at the cameras, don’t turn your body language entirely away from them, make sure we can see your face at all times. We’ve positioned you that way, but it’s always nice if you’re cooperating.” Pepper taps idly at her clipboard, not even bothering to look down. “If Sharon tells you to go somewhere with her, just play along; it’s probably something that’s been planned ahead of time. You’ll know if it’s not, because we’ll forcibly try to stop you.”

“You’ve definitely planned something. Got it.”

“Don’t sass me,” Pepper says with a smile. “Lastly, what were you planning on talking to Sharon about today?”

Honestly? At this point, Steve’s been hyping himself so much for this conversation, he’s not entirely sure himself. “Well, I definitely want to discuss how we’re both feeling about the relationship and the pace we want to take it at from here on out.” That’s a start, at least. “After the debacle with the kiss at the last rose ceremony, I just want to...I don’t even know, Pepper. This show is insane.”

“Tell me about it.” Pepper sighs, tucking her clipboard under her arm and sighing as she gives Steve a wry smile. “I’ve been working on this program for so long, and I see so many people go through the exact same thing—let me tell you, it never gets any easier. Not for anyone.”

“I’m supposed to know if I’m ready to marry Sharon in  _ three months!” _ And _ that’s _ the stumbling block he keeps coming back to, as of late. “I don’t wanna rush things because I don’t want either of us to feel uncomfortable or forced or like...like we  _ have _ to hit certain milestones because of the time limit. But the time limit does  _ very much exist, _ and we can’t just pretend things are  _ normal, _ because nothing here is normal.”

“Well.” Pepper blinks, speaking slowly and reluctantly. “This is really the sort of thing that varies from relationship to relationship—some people are obviously gonna be more comfortable with something than others.”

“But?”

“But—and really, this  _ is _ just my opinion—getting engaged at the end of this show doesn’t necessarily mean you  _ have _ to get married, you know? I mean, the odds are decidedly  _ not _ in favor of that conclusion.” She drops her voice. “Did you know that Kaitlyn’s officially broken up with Shawn?”

“What?” Steve blinks.  _ “When?!” _

“Pretty soon after filming started.” Pepper sighs. “I liked them. Oh, and she’s dating Jason now.”

“Who?” Steve remembers talking with Sam and Natasha about how awesome Kaitlyn was just the other day. Or months ago. Geez, time’s weird here in the Bachelor pocket dimension. “From  _ Becca’s _ season?”

“Right?! I mean, I’m  _ happy,  _ because they were both great people and I got along with them and was rooting for them on their respective seasons, but I’m  _ sad, _ because—you know what, never mind.” Pepper sighs, tapping her fingers nervously on her clipboard. “Look, the point is, getting to the end of the show doesn’t mean you have to get married. Even  _ getting on one knee _ doesn’t mean you have to get married, not here.”

“In the Bachelor pocket dimension.”

“Whatever you gotta tell yourself.” Pepper shrugs, dropping her hands helplessly. “Here, being the final rose just means…‘Hey, I liked you most out of the other guys who were here. Let’s date and see where this goes.’”

“It means ‘let’s date  _ under intense public scrutiny _ and see where this goes’.” Steve shakes his head, almost subconsciously takes a bite of the pizza, and immediately regrets it. “What the hell is this?!”

“The Original BBQ Chicken Pizza?”

...Steve’s ongoing experience of Californian life, as limited as it may be within the bubble of reality television, is giving New Jersey a run for its money. At least, it’s giving how he  _ imagines _ New Jersey a run for its money, seeing as it’s been a while since he’s stepped foot there. “You couldn’t have just gotten pepperoni or cheese like a normal person?”

“Just for that, I’m getting you pineapple next time,” Pepper says with an eye roll as she ignores Steve’s indignant squawk. “But yeah, the things you do on this show are just...things you do, you know? Personally, if  _ I _ were stuck in the perpetually evolving landscape of reality television—which it sometimes feels like, dating Tony, even if I keep  _ telling _ him it’s on the DL—”

“Hang on, you’re  _ what?!” _

“—I’d function by separating the actions I take on the show from the feelings and the real emotional connection I’m building with the other party.” Pepper hums, contemplative now. “Do things for the camera because they need to be done. Behind closed doors, let things run on their own...if that makes any sense.”

“You’re  _ dating Tony Stark?” _

“...Oh.” The look of genuine surprise that blooms on Pepper’s face is actually pretty funny, for all two seconds of its existence. “No. Of course not.”

Steve debates pushing the subject, but settles for filing concrete confirmation on one of Hollywood’s more elusive ‘are-they-or-aren’t-they’ relationships into his mind for Natasha and Sam to yell with him over later. For now, he’s kind of got his own relationship problems. “Yeah, sure, but this thing with Sharon doesn’t exactly have any ‘closed doors’.” For Christ’s sake, he hasn’t even had two minutes with her alone since he sent himself into an existential crisis over her last week. He couldn’t exactly bring it up in the escape room, either, as firmly closed as that door was in the literal sense. “Besides, all that stuff about compartmentalizing your feelings separately from your actions just feels—dishonest, I guess? Like you’re acting for the cameras.”

“Look, I hate to break it to you, but if you’re not acting for the cameras then I’m manipulating you into following our script.” Pepper winces even as she says it. “And if I’m not manipulating you properly, they’re doing it in post by editing different parts of your interviews together to get you to say the things we want to say. A sentence fragment here, a conjunction there, and we’ve got a full sentence that encompasses a lot of emotions over a lot of days.”

_ What. _

“To be fair, that’s a common reality television practice, clipping together multiple voice-overs. In the industry, it’s called frankenbiting.”

“I don’t...”  _ What the fuck. _ “I don’t wanna be franken—frankenbitten.”

“Honestly, there’s not much either of us can do.” Pepper reluctantly takes her clipboard back out, smiling tightly as her spine straightens; Steve can practically see her switch flipping back to business mode. “Anyway, talking about what happened after the last rose ceremony is great, considering we got that conversation with Bucky on film. We also think you could tie this back to your general discomfort with romantic relationships.” She flips the page and purses her lips, astutely avoiding Steve’s gaze. “...Also, we’d like you to talk about your mom.”

Almost immediately, Steve can feel himself emotionally disconnecting from the conversation; it’s like his organs are immediately shrivelling away from Pepper in protest. He’s not sure what exactly is happening on his face, but whatever it is, it makes Pepper take a small step back.

“My mom,” he says hollowly. For a second, he can’t really think of anything else. Then, low and dangerous:  _ “why.” _

“Well, you  _ did _ bring it up on your paperwork,” Pepper points out, tapping the page in front of her.  _ Fuck _ that paperwork, honestly. Steve is a goddamn idiot and also regrets the degree of separation that tricked him into a false sense of security, confiding in that stupid paperwork. “And your emotional wariness is as good a segue as any.”

Wow, Pepper, way to psychoanalyze me and exploit it for the television, Steve wants to say. Then again, right now Steve also kind of wants to  _ punch something.  _ He adds a mental tally for that boxing with Sam, curls his fingers into fists, and digs the nails in until he can muster up something like a grin and delude himself into thinking he can bear it.

He is probably not grinning in a very friendly way. It brings him a perverse sense of satisfaction.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, Steve, you really don’t have to,” Pepper says gently. Steve will give her this much: she does sound genuinely sorry for bringing it up. “We thought it’d be fair game, because you initiated the conversation yourself in your paperwork. If you truly don’t want to talk about it on air, that’s perfectly within your rights. You’ve got plenty to talk about already, with what happened last week.”

“I...” 

“But Steve,” Pepper says softly, pressing her finger to her earpiece. She frowns, eyebrows furrowing. “Think about what I said about acting. Besides...this  _ is _ something you’ll have to discuss in your relationships, sooner or later. The things we make you do, that’s for show. But that doesn’t mean your relationship with Sharon doesn’t benefit as a result.”

There’s a lot of things Steve feels like he  _ should _ be saying, but nothing he particularly  _ wants _ to say. His brain bypasses his conversational filter and spits out “I’ll think about it”, which is all-in-all probably the best case scenario.

“That’s all I ask,” Pepper sighs, turning tightly on her heel and walking away. As she leaves, Steve distinctly hears her talking to Christine—something about filming in the main house.

Jesus  _ Christ. _

Steve straightens his shirt, tugs down the sleeves of Bucky’s jacket, and thinks about it.

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W3D3_MR_C05_MC3.mxf**

_ [A few of the men are arranged on the couches in the familiar open-U position. Producer Christine Everhart stands in front of them, consulting with Pepper through her earpiece. Bucky lazily raises his hand.] _

“I’m sorry, what exactly is this Man Chat about?”

“It’s about Steve.”  _ [Christine fixes him with a disdainful glare.]  _ “What do you think he’s doing on his date today? What do you think might be happening? Let’s start with you, Bucky—how do you feel about the fact that Steve is on this one-on-one?”

_ [Bucky shrugs one shoulder, clearly detached.] _ “Happy for him, I guess—”  _ [He smiles tightly, glancing at Christine.] _ “I’m sorry.”  _ [He turns back to the other men.]  _ “I’m pretty glad Steve got this one-on-one. He’s been looking for a chance to talk to Sharon all week, and I know he was worried he wouldn’t be able to.”

_ [Christine crosses her arms.] _ “Do you think he’s nervous enough that he might decide the relationship isn't right and go home?”

_ [Cameron K. shakes his head and glances over towards the doorway, where Steve’s bag is packed in case he gets sent home.] _ “I know he’s nervous, but I don’t think he’d leave on his own. He’s got a lot of faith in Sharon.”

“Christ, I hope not. The house’d be boring without him—”

“Actually, I think it’s important that you think a little more about what Steve’s indecision late last week  _ could _ mean for this date. Whether or not he's ready to properly open up to Sharon about his life.”  _ [Christine purses her lips.] _ “Anyone want to start?”

_ [No one says a word. Bucky raises his hand.] _

“Yes?”

“You should’ve asked Brock to do this.”  _ [His body language is unconcerned, but his frown is all too genuine.] _

“He’s providing us with material in ITM’s. It’s up to you.”  _ [Christine scowls before carefully walking out of the shot. Even in the following silence, it’s evident that she’s not going to back down.] _

_ [Finally Bucky sighs, sitting up slowly and shaking out his limbs as he turns to the other men.] _ “Alright, fine.”  _ [He takes a dramatic breath, rolling his eyes before squeezing them tightly closed; when he opens them again his expression is entirely serious, just a hint skeptical.]  _ “I just don’t know what’s going to happen, you know? I hope he comes back, obviously—he’s a great guy and all—but even so, we know he can get pretty wound up about things.”

_ [Scott meets Bucky’s eyes, nodding his head briefly.] _ “Yeah, I don’t know. If he doesn’t focus on his feelings for Sharon, she might send him home.”

“He thinks his relationship with Sharon is stronger than everyone else’s—good for him, I guess—but it’s making him get in his own head.”  _ [Bucky taps his temple smartly.] _ “He’s gotta just let go of all the distractions and stop thinking about everyone else.”

_ [Then men nod. Bruce sighs.]  _ “Well, only time will tell.”

“We’ll see.”  _ [Bucky nods once, then turns a vicious glare back to Christine where she stands off-screen.] _ “Well? Did you get the soundbyte you needed?”

_ [When Christine speaks, she sounds reluctant.] _ “Yes, you’re free to go.”

_ [There’s an audible sigh of relief as the men stand, a few storming off immediately to return to their own business. Scott pats Bucky briefly on the shoulder as he leaves; Bucky simply nods in return to the silent thanks, shifting back into his lounging position and looking troubled. He stays there, frowning at Steve’s luggage, long after the producers and other contestants have gone.] _

* * *

Here’s the thing about Steve: he’s legendarily bad at following orders. For all that he appreciates the direction he’s being given on this show with how spectacularly terrible he is at the dating scene in general, for all that he’s willing to play along for the producers so the rest of the guys don’t have to sit around for three hours as they coax the footage they need from them—for all he’s willing to play up the ‘good guy’ image, there’s a little part of him that pops up every time Pepper tells him to do something and whispers that he should  _ fuck all the shit up, right now, motherfuckers, immediately. _

He’d be lying if he said he’d learned how to keep that part of him in check, because that’s the part of him that faces down catcallers in back alleys, started a bar fight when some douchebag didn’t tip on a ten-person tab, and kinda wants to suplex Brock every time he says something is ‘gay’ around the house. 

They’re sitting at a fancy table that someone’s set up right in the middle of a fancy bridge that Steve’s pretty sure was shut down expressly for this purpose. It’s a balmy night in California, and Bucky’s jacket is the only thing keeping the chill out. There’s lasagna on the plate in front of him, candles and flowers arranged meticulously on the table, Sharon sitting across from him in a chic dress that is (for some inexplicable reason) different from the dress she was wearing during the escape room, and he has to  _ talk about his mom to her in front of a camera that will broadcast on live television. _

Sharon’s saying something about the escape room, and chemistry, and how they can be relaxed around each other, which would be a nice sentiment if Steve  _ were _ relaxed instead of keyed up for a confrontation that can’t happen—because he can’t yell at Sharon, and he can’t yell at the executive producer, and he can’t yell at Pepper, and he can’t  _ leave, _ and he doesn’t want to talk about his mom but now that it’s in his head it’s going to rattle around in there until he  _ does. _ He knows this, because this is the only way his emotions break through his complex system of compartmentalization and stubborn projected strength and it’s how he ended up breaking down about Sarah Rogers to Natasha, and Sam, and  _ that’s it nobody fucking else. _

Poor, naive fool. He’d gone into this date thinking it would turn out  _ well. _

And it’s that side of him, the angry side of him that’s yelling to  _ fuck up all the things, _ that sits up when Sharon says she felt like she could trust him in that escape room and snipes back with “I don’t know, it’s kinda  _ hard _ to trust you in this sort of situation”.

Immediately, he realizes he has indeed fucked all the things up; everything suddenly pops back into focus, from the clatter of one of the cameramen as he drops a pen to the quiet  _ thunk _ as Pepper lets her head hit the clipboard to the brief expression of shock that flashes briefly across Sharon’s face. Within seconds, though, her face is calm, guardedly professional. She studies him intently for a moment, jerks her head minutely, and purses her lips. Steve is  _ so _ going home.

“I know it can be tough to deal with the competition and the other relationships I’ve got going on,” she says carefully, her eyes flitting slowly between him and a point on her far left—the  _ camera, _ Steve realizes. She’s trying to tell him something. “But I really do care about you, Steve. I gave you the first impression rose, you know? I really feel like what we have could be special.”

Steve nearly goes to tell her that that’s not what this is about, but Sharon jerks her head again—at the producers standing idly behind a partially covered area—and glances over—at the cameras, that are pulling in on him to snatch up his reaction. She blinks meaningfully, eyes wide.

She’s giving him an  _ out. _

Of course, she has some inkling about what’s going on—they’ve been playing fast and loose with the privacy of the contestants among  _ each other, _ it’s no surprise they’ll be feeding information to the Bachelorette. Steve would bet so much money that Sharon’s been given lines to prompt him with, if nothing else; all that stuff about trust and opening up and showing vulnerability and fear, like that wasn’t supposed to get him to say something about why he keeps up a brave face to begin with—Jesus, these people are assholes. Steve has to tack on another three boxing days to his tally for the gall of the producers alone.

But Sharon. She winks at him, face completely somber, with the eye that’s on the far side of the camera. Under the table, she nudges him with her foot.

She’s  _ giving him an out. _

“I know, I do too.” Steve nods forcefully and nearly knocks over a fork to grab Sharon’s hand, because he’s  _ grateful, _ damn it, and he needs her to know. She twitches her finger in his grip as he squeezes her hand tightly, a rueful smile crossing her lips as she nods knowingly. Funnily enough, even if they’re both playing along to get Steve out of this mess, it seems true enough—Steve  _ does _ appreciate their relationship, as weird and new as it is. “It’s just—it’s hard to know what to do around you, when there’s everyone else. I know we’re not supposed to compare our relationships, but...well. Obviously, I want you to like me best, you know?”

“Well, I’d hope you like me best, too.”

“Don’t think you have much competition there,” he laughs, and it’s amazing how much more relaxed he feels now. “But seriously, I just want this relationship to go as normally as possible.”

“But we can’t do that here.”

“No, we can’t.” Well, he can kiss frontrunner status good-bye. Nearby, Pepper’s muttering almost non-stop into her earpiece; Steve has a few very good guesses about what the men in the house might be discussing at this very moment. “I’m—used to moving much more slowly than this.” He rubs at his chin, wondering whether he should go as far as to say he regrets kissing her at the rose ceremony, before he decides he’s done enough damage today. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad I’m here. You’re an amazing woman. But at the end of the day, I just want a normal, relaxed relationship—someone I trust, yes—”

“And can communicate with?”

“Well, I’m not saying the escape room was the wrong idea.” It was pretty fun, actually. “But in the end, I just want someone who understands me, you know? Someone with shared life experience that I can share my life with.”

Sharon squeezes his hand again, brings it upwards, and smacks a quick kiss to his knuckles. Steve definitely does not swoon like a Victorian maiden. He  _ does _ feel his heart skip a beat when she lets go to grab the rose from its place of honor at the forefront of the table, though. “Listen, I’m glad you told me about how you were feeling. I’m glad you feel that you can be honest with me.” Her eyes flicker briefly over to the cameras again. “And I want you to know—I’m fine with the pace our relationship is at right now. You don’t need to feel like you have to tell me everything, and I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do; I like what we have, and I’m excited to see you again so I can learn more about those life experiences and see where things go. So Steve...will you accept this rose?”

The part of Steve that wants to  _ fuck all the shit up _ is suddenly very tempted to say  _ I’m thorny for you,  _ but the urge has been satisfied for now. “Absolutely. And...” He catches Sharon’s hand as she pulls away from pinning the rose on his jacket, making sure she looks him in the eye. “Thanks. I mean it.”

When she catches the look in his eye and purposefully diverts to kiss him on the cheek, that’s when Steve knows that Sharon is one of the good ones.

“Say.” She hums, standing and pressing the napkin on her lap briefly to her mouth before turning to Steve. “Do you hear music?”

He doesn’t. “I’m gonna assume the answer to that question is yes.”

“How very astute of you.”

Steve can feel the smile on his face that matches hers, equal parts relief and amusement; she’s grinning down at him, hair blowing wildly in her face. He laughs as he takes her outstretched hand.

* * *

**ITM: Steve Rogers**

_ [Steve’s standing on a well-lit bridge; the lights of the city twinkle in the backdrop. He smiles from ear to ear.] _

_ “Are you feeling good about Sharon right now?” _

“I’m feeling really good about Sharon and my relationship with her right now. I didn’t know what to expect going into this date, but it just exceeded all my expectations. I’m really excited about us and where we’ll go in the future.”

_ “Do you think you could see yourself falling in love with a woman like Sharon?” _

“Sharon’s the type of person I could easily see myself falling for. She’s an amazing woman; seeing her just get to work in that escape room really blew me away. Beyond that, though, she’s kind and considerate. She saw that I was having a hard time during our date, and she went out of her way to help me for the sake of our relationship.”  _ [He’s gushing, eyes alight.]  _

_ “And are all your concerns gone, then?” _

“My concerns? Well...”  _ [He trails off, eyeing the camera as his shoulders tense suddenly. Off-screen, Pepper sighs.] _

_ “Yes, Steve?” _

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bring up my mom anymore.”

_ “It’s a big part of your life.” [Pepper speaks slowly, cautiously.] “And it’s shaped who you are—you said so yourself. In any major relationship—” _

“I told you  _ last week _ that I wanted things to progress more naturally.”  _ [He’s getting more agitated now, scowling more fiercely with each word.] _ “Last week, and you’re already back to trying to strongarm me into doing this shit. This is stuff that most of my close friends don’t even know, for God’s sake. I’ve been talking to Sharon for what, two weeks?”

_ “Don’t you believe in your relationship?” _

“Those things aren’t mutually exclusive—just because I like where we’re going doesn’t mean she has the right to know everything about me immediately.”  _ [He bristles at the condescension.] _ “I just want to take things at a pace that’s comfortable and works for us. Honestly, I’m not quite sure why I let you be a part of this relationship for so long in the first place.”

_ “Because it’s the Bachelor.” [Pepper’s voice is both exasperated and weary.] “Look, Steve, I’m gonna say this one more time because I’m your friend—” _

“And you’re paid to gain my trust?”

_ “That too, but mostly because I really do like you and, if you like Sharon as much as you say you do, I want you to stick around.” [She sighs, clothes rustling as she shifts slowly.] “I get that you want to feel comfortable, and I get that you want your relationship to feel natural.” _

“That’s a normal desire.”

_ “But this process is, by design, unnatural.” [Steve opens his mouth to protest, but Pepper raises her voice and he backs down.] “And you can’t afford to pretend everything is normal when every other person is being told the exact same thing and opening up just as quickly. We didn’t ask you to do anything out of the ordinary. One-on-one dates are rare. It’s expected for the date to talk very seriously about important issues with the Bachelorette.” _

“Sharon agrees with me.”

_ “She does, for now. But the first impression is only going to get you so far. This  _ is _ a relationship, just sped up on steroids.” [Pepper sighs.] “For the record, I won’t bring up your mom again. I’m sorry I did it in the first place; I didn’t know you didn’t want us to talk about it. But you should seriously consider discussing it with her sometime soon, before one of the other producers decides to do it for you.” _

_ [The two of them lapse into silence; Steve stares distantly at the camera for a moment, troubled and lost in thought.] _

_ “You okay?” _

“...Can I go now?”  _ [Steve’s voice is tight.] _ “I wanna go back to the house. I just—I need to talk to someone, get my mind off things, and it just...can’t be you right now.”

_ “I understand.” [Pepper pauses.] “But—I’m sorry, Steve. We can pick up a few tomorrow, but I just need a little more footage here on the bridge.” _

“...Okay.”

_ “I really am sorry.” _

“I know, Pep.”  _ [Steve grimaces.] _ “You’re just doing your job.”

_ “Sometimes...” [She trails off.] “Anyway. We’re gonna pretend we’re back at the beginning of the date, and Sharon’s leading you somewhere you don’t know yet. Describe coming across the bridge in present tense. How did it feel?” _

“I swear, I’m never gonna get used to the present tense thing...”  _ [Steve closes his eyes and takes a deep breath; when he opens them again, he’s like a different person.] _ “Right. I’m walking with Sharon down the road, and suddenly, she pulls me off to the side. And I’m thinking to myself, ‘what’s going on...’”

* * *

“...and then she asks me if I hear music, which I don’t, obviously, because the music’s on an  _ entirely different bridge.” _ Steve shakes his head. “Anyway, she leads me over, and there’s an entire stage set up on this  _ entirely different bridge—” _

“So let me get this straight, they closed two bridges with active traffic just for your date?” Bucky whistles, tossing a Bottle Cap at Steve; it bounces of his nose, but Steve snags it out of the air before it hits the bedspread and tosses it back. Bucky catches it in his mouth, sucking on it thoughtfully as he sits further up on his bed. In the bunk behind them, Wade snores loudly. “Damn, Rogers, you really  _ are _ the chosen one.”

“Hey, hey, shut up.” Steve fishes another Bottle Cap out of his stash and shoves it in Bucky’s mouth.

“Aw, you’re wasting a root beer on li’l ol' me?”

“Yeah, if you’ll  _ shut up.” _

Miraculously, Bucky shuts up. He clacks the two candies cheerfully against his teeth, flipping them over on his tongue with his mouth open because he’s an asshole, but Steve still takes it as a win.

“Anyway. So Sharon brings me over to the stage, which has some sort of rug or something laid out in front of it for us to dance on? I don’t know.”

“...A rug?”

“Yeah.” Bucky passes Steve the beer they’ve been sharing; Steve takes a long drink. “Mm—also, these fake street lamps? Like the sort of props they’d use in a high school musical or something.”

“So, tacky.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say  _ that.” _

“Just answer me this.” Bucky swallows down the Bottle Caps. “Were their string lights?”

...Yes. “Maybe.”

“Then there you go, tacky. Gimme the bottle.”

“Well, if you’re gonna be a dick about it...” Steve drains the rest of the bottle before tossing it back into Bucky’s lap, because he’s an asshole, and standing up to crack open another one from the case they’ve got on the nightstand, because he’s a good person. “Anyway, so  _ Andy Grammer _ is standing up on that stage—”

“Hang on, I  _ know _ that name.” Bucky fumbles over himself, sways, and nearly tips right off the bed. Christ, it’s getting  _ late. _ Or is it getting early? “This is...his old stuff was popular, right? He’s one of those early 2010 pop artists or whatever, isn’t he?”

“He’s the ‘Keep Your Head Up’ guy.” Steve pops open the cap and hurls it at Bucky on instinct; Bucky snags it out of the air with one hand and glares, to which Steve can’t do anything but smile sheepishly and pass him the beer first in deference. “‘Keep your head up, let your hair down’, remember?”

“He...oh, shit! And ‘Fine by Me’, too! That was him, wasn’t it?” Bucky grins, all teeth.  _ “Please _ tell me he played ‘Fine by Me’ for you and Sharon, that would’ve been hysterical.”

He’s gonna regret this. “What the hell is ‘Fine by Me’?”

“It’s basically a song about a girl who wants commitment and a boy who sleeps around get together. The song’s from the guy’s point of view pretending to play it cool and saying he’s finally ready for a tangible commitment—”

“So what I’m hearing,” says Steve with a grin, “is that you ghostwrote this song.”

“Fuck you, have you seriously never heard this?” Bucky flicks the bottle cap (the real one, not the candy ones) at Steve’s forehead as Steve sits back down next to him on the bunk. “‘I’m just saying it’s fine by me if you never leave, we can live like this forever’—dude, it was on the radio for literal  _ ages _ when it came out.”

“I mean, it sounds  _ familiar. _ The words, not your bastardized wailing.” Steve smirks, pretending to think about it. “No, they didn’t sing that for me, though. Guess they were saving it for  _ you, _ since that’s how you probably are in a long term relationship, you jerk—”

“—Watch your mouth, you dirty punk.”

“—but no.” Steve smirks as he gets pelted with another Bottle Cap (the candy, not the real one). “I  _ do _ remember them singing ‘I Choose You’, though, because that was the only song slow enough that I felt comfortable finally kissing her without falling over.”

“I don’t know that one.”

“‘I choose you to be by my side, I choose you to hold me at night’...” Steve snaps his mouth shut when Scott rolls over on the other bunk, but the man thankfully just murmurs something in his sleep and turns back around. After a second glance, he turns back to Bucky and lowers his voice. “You don’t know that one? Really?”

“Well, I don’t like him  _ that _ much.” Bucky steals the beer from Steve and taps it against his forehead. “Sounds slow, though. And sappy, although it’s hard to tell through your shitty singing.”

“Fuck you, I’ve been told my singing is amazing.” Granted, the last person who told him his singing was amazing was Sam, and he was definitely saying so sarcastically, but Bucky doesn’t need to know that. “Oh, and he also played that one song...uh, the fast one that Nat says makes my country side show—”

“Oh, shit, I know that one!” Bucky’s eyes light up as he flails upward, kicking the headboard; the two of them immediately freeze as both their roommates stir. Bucky gestures wildly with his hands in a mix of flailing and aborted sign language until Scott and Wade both calm once more. “The one that’s got a beat like—the Cotton Eye Joe one, right?”

“Yes, yes, exactly!” Damn it, now Steve regrets not  _ doing _ the Cotton Eye Joe dance during the date. “What’s the title of it again?”

“Dude, that was my guilty pleasure song for  _ ages. _ I don’t know how, but it’s still on our playlist down at the auto shop. Clint will  _ not _ let it go. What’s the chorus like again?”

“Uh...” Shit. “I literally heard this song  _ earlier tonight, _ I cannot have forgotten it already.”

Bucky chews on his lip and taps his fingernails against the headboard, frowning. “Something—it’s about cheating, right? Or  _ not _ cheating, rather—don’t think they’d sing a song about cheating on your date, obviously, not when it’s  _ you—” _

“If only we had the  _ Internet _ or something to look it up, am I right?”

“Don’t even start me on that, I’ve been indoors all day and I’m pretty sure they finally updated my favorite sitcom on Netflix.” Bucky crosses himself, staring mournfully at Steve with an expression that makes him dissolve into giggles. “Anyway, lyrics aside—please tell me you did the Cotton Eye Joe.”

“Sadly, without you there to remind me, I did not.” Steve shakes his head as Bucky lets out a scandalized gasp. “I know, I know—but we  _ did _ dance and sing along to the music in the middle of the bridge by ourselves. Which was fucking weird, because—well. There were more people up on that stage than there were  _ watching _ them.” He thinks about it for a second. “That, and the cameramen. They’re all dressed in black, surrounding us like a firing squad, and they’re either completely stone-faced as they zoom in on us making out or they’re leering with these sadistic smiles like ‘yes, that’s right, use the tongue’—”

Bucky snorts. At least  _ someone’s _ enjoying his pain.

“—shut up. It’s just so much weirder when there’s only the two of you and you’re supposed to be sharing an intimate moment.” Or when there’s nothing they could possibly be recording except Steve’s shitty, awkward dancing, but he’s not about to say that to anyone who doesn’t need to know.

“I’ll bet. But hey, at least you’re around for another week.” Bucky rubs at his eyes blearily, leaning back and rubbing at his blanket where the sun’s shining on it through the window. “Shit, is it morning already? We  _ really _ should’ve gone to bed.”

“...Right.” Well, at least the bathroom’ll be empty. Steve shucks off Bucky’s jacket and tosses it at him before grabbing a fresh pair of underwear from the front pocket of his smaller suitcase. After two weeks, the entire house seems to have collectively given up on sleeping with shirts on, not with the lack of air conditioning. “Hey, can I borrow your soap? It’s just that we’re leaving in two days, and I don’t wanna have to unpack my second suitcase...”

“Knock yourself out.” Bucky throws an arm over his eyes, tosses his jacket weakly over his headboard, and stretches out properly on his mattress now that Steve’s no longer there taking up space. As he puts his pillow over his head, Steve distinctly hears him muttering to himself. “What the  _ fuck _ are those song lyrics again? ‘Nah, nah...I could...I  _ should? _ ’ This is gonna keep bothering me until I’m sure.”

Steve makes it all the way to the bedroom door before Bucky calls him back. “Hey, Steve, wait.”

“Yeah? What’s up?”

Bucky lifts his head, looking Steve over with a raised eyebrow. “But this time when you kissed her, it wasn’t because you felt pressured, right? They didn’t give you shit about the last rose ceremony  _ again _ today, did they?” He puts his head back down, closing his eyes as he murmurs softly, already half-asleep. “Because I can totally troll them during the next rose ceremony or ruin all their shots with you or whatever, if they did. Whatever was happening on your date, those assholes were getting really excited here at the mansion, trying to get us to trash-talk you.”

For a second, Steve considers telling Bucky—about Pepper, about Sharon, about all the shit they put him through to try to get him to talk about his mom. Although he’s grateful that he didn’t have to tell Sharon about it, having it brought up again makes him want to tell  _ someone _ about it, and between the producers and Sharon’s position of power and all the shit that’s been going on that they’ve been helping each other through, Bucky’s the person he trusts most.

But it’s only been two weeks, for God’s sake. Besides, after the absolute roller coaster this date has been, Steve’s just thankful the night ended on a high note.

“Things worked out,” is what he settles for. Bucky eyes him for a second, clearly troubled and seeing right through the vague statement, but Steve holds his gaze and eventually Bucky’s eyes begin to flutter closed despite himself. Steve snickers. “That’s right, Buck, go to sleep. Everything’s fine.”

“Your butt’s fine, asshole,” Bucky slurs back, with all the confident finality of the best comeback in the world. Steve has to shove his hand in his mouth and run to the bathroom so he doesn’t end up laughing loud enough to wake up Wade and Scott—yep, definitely ending on a high note.

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W3D4_SR1_C03_MC3.mxf**

_ [There are five men sitting on the couches; Steve sits in the lone armchair, rubbing the back of his neck apprehensively as the others look to him.] _

“I don’t know about this, you guys. I mean, do you  _ really _ want to hear me talk about the date I went on with the girl you’re all  _ also _ dating?”  _ [He pauses.] _ “Wow, that’s a messed up sentence.”

“No shit, buddy.”  _ [Bucky lolls his head over, rolling his eyes and grinning. A few of the other men laugh.] _ “Steve, the producers literally  _ called us over here _ so that we could listen to you talk about your date. Now hurry it up.”  _ [He rolls his eyes, glancing at the other men.] _ “I’m sure none of us will hold it against you.”

“Well, when you put it  _ that _ way...”

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W3D4_MR_C11_QS.mxf**

_ [The camera’s held loosely in one hand, aimed haphazardly downward so that the only thing in the shot are two pairs of walking shoes. Pietro and Wanda can be heard clearly.] _

“At one point, they just held hands and spun around in a circle like a bad commercial.”  _ [Wanda snorts.] _ “I’m telling you, Steve cannot dance to save his life. He tried to spin Sharon under his arm—you know what I’m talking about—and he ended up twisting his arm the wrong way and they had to let go.”

“Man, I wish I’d been there.”  _ [Pietro sighs wistfully.] _ “They just had us running back and forth here, filming Man Chats like you wouldn’t believe—oh. Hey.”

_ [A third set of shoes stops within the frame—red chucks. The voice of Peter Parker can be heard clearly from near the camera.]  _ “Uh, hey. Look, I’m sorry to bother you, but I was just wondering what that, uh, giant line is for. And I was hoping you’d be able to tell me. Maybe.”  _ [He pauses uncomfortably.] _ “Hopefully.”

_ [For a moment, no one says anything; the three sets of feet shift uncomfortably. Finally, Pietro speaks.]  _ “You’re the intern, aren’t you?”

“Yeah! Yeah, that’s me.”

“That line is the queue for ITMs.”  _ [Wanda speaks up, taking pity.] _ “It’s always this long early in the show, people eager to speak their minds and pick up moments from group dates. We’re on our way in to film some of our own, actually; the more hands on deck, the faster the process, obviously—”

“Wanda.”  _ [Pietro’s voice is suddenly low.] _ “Shut up for a second.”

“Excuse me?!”

_ “Look.” _

_ [Pietro raises the camera; the image adjusts to the light, focusing as Pietro zooms the lens in. All the way across the room, there’s a line of men spilling out into the hallway; Pietro tightens the shot on the two men closest to them. It’s hard to hear, but their faces are easy to make out; it’s Bucky and T’Challa.] _

“I heard you had...”  _ [The sentence is lost briefly in the chatter of the line.] _ “...borrow The Sirens of Titan?”

_ [Bucky nods, pursing his lips and looking around warily; Wanda and Pietro duck into the nearest hallway. Peter Parker lets out a yelp as Wanda drags him with them. When the shot refocuses, T’Challa is dropping a handful of candy into Bucky’s outstretched palm.] _

“What’s going on?”

“Shh!”

_ [Bucky shoves the entire handful into his mouth, chewing cheerfully. He winks at T’Challa, mouthing the words clearly enough to be seen over the camera.] _ “Come see me after the ITM.”

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W3D7_MR_C00_MC1.mxf**

_ [The shot crackles suddenly to life; the mounted camera is focused on the main room of the house, which is for once almost entirely silent and eerily empty. The voices of Pietro and Wanda ring clearly in the room as the camera suddenly shifts out of its place.] _

“Right, this camera’s working fine.”  _ [Pietro adjusts the camera so it’s briefly titled toward him, checking the lens.]  _ “Do you have the case?”

“Somewhere here.”  _ [Wanda rummages around somewhere off-screen.] _ “Are you excited for Phoenix?”

“I haven’t been to Arizona yet, so at least that’s one more state off the list.”  _ [Pietro sighs.] _ “Not that the show will ever take us to Alaska.”

“You never know.”  _ [Wanda hums briefly as a clatter rings out from a nearby table; there’s the sound of clasps snapping.] _ “Can we  _ talk _ about what happened at last night’s rose ceremony?”

“What  _ was _ that?!”  _ [Pietro laughs.] _ “There’s always someone who comes back looking for another chance when they’ve just been eliminated, sure—”

“—But to  _ throw yourself _ out of the moving car—”

“I would’ve wanted to be the one filming in that vehicle, that’s for sure.”  _ [Another pair of footsteps draws closer; from the sound, it seems to be high heels.] _ “Hey, Pepper.”

“Oh, good, there you guys are.”  _ [Pepper’s voice comes through clearly; she sounds amused about something.] _ “We need a few cameras outside.”

“Isn’t today a blackout day?”  _ [Pietro sounds confused.] _ “The day after rose ceremonies, don’t we give them the day off?”

“Normally, yes.”  _ [Pepper laughs.] _ “But it  _ is _ the last day of filming in the Bachelor mansion, and some of the men organized a kind of pool party, so we figured it would be a good time to get shots for the B-roll.”

“The  _ one year _ they don’t have a pool party to  _ replace _ a rose ceremony, and the men willingly get themselves shirtless anyway.” _ [Wanda, too, sounds amused now.] _ “I’d ask to watch, but I’m guessing they don’t have mic packs.”

“No, they don’t.”  _ [Pepper sighs.] _ “We should probably clean up the foyer from last night’s rose ceremony, anyway. But Pietro, if you wouldn’t mind…?”

“One serving of eye candy, coming up.”  _ [Pietro sighs, hoists the camera up properly onto his shoulder, and leaves Wanda and Pepper to their business.] _

_ [As Pietro gets closer and closer to the pool area, the camera begins to pick up more sound; there’s the distinct cadence of hysterical laughter, thumping bass, and loud splashes indicative of belly flopping interspersed with what can only be people playing Marco Polo. Snippets of conversation begin to break through.] _

“Can’t wait for a change of scenery—”

“Do you think Sharon will—”

“Anyway, there’s this place back home—”

“Buck, I swear to God, don’t you dare—”

_ [As the camera rounds the corner, the pool comes into view; a few of the men are standing by the snack table chatting and a few of the men are sitting on lounge chairs, but a good majority of them are in the water. The hot tub is very obviously empty; the sun shines down heavily, casting everything in a warm glow. Bucky and Steve are standing on the side of the pool closest to the camera; Pietro arrives just in time to see Bucky rush Steve, hoist him partially over his shoulder, and toss him bodily into the water before screaming like a banshee and diving in himself. On the other side of the pool, a few of their friends cheer.] _

“And round one goes to Barnes!”

“Holy shit!”

_ [Bucky resurfaces, laughing and pushing the hair out of his face. He flaps his hand a little as he bows, looking around with a wide grin.] _

“Take that, Steve!”

_ [His grin fades when he realizes Steve still hasn’t resurfaced.] _

“...Steve?”

_ [A dark shadow lurks just under the surface of the water behind him. A hand comes out of the water, grabbing Bucky’s shoulder; his eyes widen almost comically.] _

“Steve, you son of a  _ bitch—” _

_ [He lets out a shriek of outraged laughter as he’s dragged under the water.] _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS THE FIRST CHAPTER WITH ACCOMPANYING ART! The lovely odetteandodile drew the scene where Steve, Quill, and Cameron are reading alone in the house. [Check it out here!](http://odette-and-odile.tumblr.com/post/183303260593/reading-on-the-dl-a-scene-from-chapter-four-of)
> 
> -apparently the door knocking is, indeed, somehow scarily loud/sudden.  
> -if my formatting convention for the book titles bucky barnes' travelling library is inconsistent it's bc i have no idea how to do things. help.  
> -demolition derby was arie's season. 'bashelor' was the actual word on the banner.  
> -escape room date from kaitlyn's season with ben z. fun fact, ben z. DID actually talk about his mother's death on the night portion of that date. and it was their first date. and it was, i think, also week 3? yeah, still messed up.  
> -if i remember correctly, the week 3 cocktail party is, in fact, usually replaced by a pool party, but i couldn't find a way to fit it in so i just. let this happen. my bad.  
> -i'd like to state once again that motorcycle rap was NOT MY IDEA.  
> -i swear to god i didn't mean for andy grammer to become a big deal here but he was in desiree's season on her one-on-one with brooks, which i was watching for research for this date, and i actually know who he is...so the song from my tbau writing playlist for this chapter is his 'honey, i'm good' which continues to make reappearances through this story. idk why. i'm so sorry.


	5. Week 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: brock being a homophobic douchebag/using slurs starts here, although it amps up a little more in the next chapter.

“And you yell at _me_ for my leather jackets.” All things considered, it’s probably not smart for Bucky to be actively heckling the man who’s currently dragging a brush through his hair, but _someone_ needs to say something. “Did you pack _anything_ suitable for April Arizona weather? And don’t say polos.”

“Polos,” Steve mutters mutinously. Bucky reaches behind him absently and slaps Steve on the knee, hair be damned, because he deserves it.

“C’mon, man, I’m relying on your closet here too.” Bucky’s legs are falling asleep from where he’s kneeling on the hotel floor; he shifts so he’s sitting cross-legged instead. Steve, who’s sitting on the bed above him, spreads his legs accordingly as Bucky pulls another of his truly hideous and virtually identical shirts from the suitcase open on his left. The majority of their collective clothes are spread across the floor in an outward pattern like the remnants of some fashion-based weapon of mass destruction. “Cargo shorts? Are you fucking _kidding_ me?!”

“They said to pack for warm weather!”

“Yeah, warm weather, not _hell!”_ Bucky balls those shorts right up and lobs them in the general direction of the trash can, because honestly, they’re fucking garbage. He’s doing Steve a favor. He’s doing the _world_ a favor. “Seriously, didn’t you run your wardrobe past some fashion-forward friends? I’ve never _met_ Natasha or Sam, but if they’re human or have...eyes...they _had_ to have said something.”

“I did!” Steve sets the brush aside and begins separating Bucky’s hair, almost absentmindedly running his fingers through it and smoothing it out into sections. “But they were only allowed to veto and-slash-or add three articles each, and _apparently_ it was more important to let me know that my Gryffindor shirt wasn’t suitable for national television.”

“Ha, I’ve got my Hufflepuff scarf in my trunk.” Bucky rolls his eyes, lifting his right hand and feeling experimentally at his hair; it seems okay. He turns, grinning up cheekily at Steve as the blond man crosses his arms and frowns down at him.

“You? Hufflepuff? You sure you’re not a Slytherin?”

Bucky elbows him in the kneecap.

“Ow! You’re proving my point, you know that?!”

“First off, don’t you _dare_ badmouth Slytherins, they are our friends.” Bucky rolls his eyes and turns back around, pursing his lips and examining the damage. There have gotta be at least _two_ television-suitable outfits he can parcel together out of their combined closets, no matter how much of a fashion disaster Steve is or a book slut Bucky is. “Second off, from what I’ve heard, I’m not the menace out of the two of us—saints alive, Steve, did you bring _jorts_ onto the _Bachelorette?!”_

“I thought they’d go well with the denim jacket!”

“You brought a _denim jacket onto the Bachelorette?!”_ Pause. Rewind. “You were going to wear your _jorts_ with your _denim jacket?! ON THE BACHELORETTE?!”_

“Yeah, say it again, I think there were some dolphins in Australia that couldn’t quite hear you!”

“Just...just...quiet.” Bucky rubs his temples furiously, questioning the choices that brought him here, to this moment, trying to turn _Steve Rogers_ and his goddamn _jorts_ into a fashion-forward outfit. He’d thought he was going to die, back when they’d been sitting in the airport with their flight delayed. And then he’d been dying on the bus ride over, crammed into the back between Steve and Thor, being slowly crushed to death by stupid buff blond men and their improbable muscle mass. Now he’s dead. “You come into my house, you disrespect my mother by bringing me fucking _jorts._ Evil Slytherins are a cruel stereotype but if they were real you would be one of them for causing me so much pain. Let me suffer and figure out this bullshit in _silence.”_

Steve is an asshole and a menace and an _asshole,_ of course, so instead of shutting up and letting Bucky do some Project Runway-level magic he sits back with an innocent smile on his innocent face and starts humming loudly.

“Steve,” Bucky says, but before he can follow up with ‘fuck you’ or ‘why’ or ‘I will pee on all the things you love’, he realizes he recognizes the music. “Are you humming that Andy Grammer song again?”

“Dammit, it’s still in my head.” Steve sighs, scooting back and stretching out comfortably on his side of the king-size bed. Bucky scrambles over to his own side, gathering pillows as he goes. Really, that’s the best part of living in the penthouse of a resort lodge; the beds are finally big enough that the two of them don’t have to cram themselves together into a twin. That, and there’s enough bedrooms for the fourteen men to split off into groups of two, so they don’t have to deal with Wade’s snoring or Wade’s B.O. or Scott’s...well, actually, it’s just Wade. “This is gonna haunt me until I figure out the words. Have you got anything?”

Boy, _does_ he. Bucky tries to pick up the thread of the melody he remembers, although it’s hard to pitch his voice that high. “‘I’ve got her, she’s got me, you’ve got that ass, but I kindly gotta be like nah’...” He trails off uncertainly. “That’s all I’ve got.”

“...Really?” Well, don’t look so _scandalized,_ Steve. “Dare I ask why _that’s_ the line you remember?”

“Well, every time that song comes on when we’re working, the Howlies and I just all yell ‘THAT ASS’. Really loudly. In unison.” Bucky cups his chin, sighing wistfully. Really, his entire crew’s full of disasters. He misses them. “And then we point at whoever’s got the best ass. Usually it’s me, but sometimes Monty does his squats. Oh, and if Gabe’s wearing his leather pants, he wins automatically.”

Steve stares at him blankly for long enough that Bucky starts to wonder if he’s ascended to a different plane out of sheer confusion. “...Terrible. You’re all _terrible.”_

“Slytherin after all, maybe?” Bucky grins, making a show of musing on it. He _does_ try his best to look after his own. “As they’ll confirm, my ass _does_ look fantastic in silver.”

* * *

**ITM: Steve Rogers**

_[Steve’s standing on the balcony of their penthouse, the warm terrain and sparse shrubbery of the gentle hills juxtaposed in the background. Against the odds, Bucky’s managed to scrounge up a comfortable-looking navy sweater.]_

“I definitely think Phoenix is the perfect place to fall in love. I’m excited to get to go around and explore the sights with Sharon.” _[Steve glances behind him briefly before turning back with a wide smile.]_ “You know, I first got interested in art when I saw a photograph of the Grand Canyon as a kid; it’s been kind of a dream of mine to see it and paint it, but the timing never lined up right. I can’t wait to get out and finally do it.” _[He pauses to take an excited breath.]_ “...I _will_ be able to leave the house and see it, won’t I?”

* * *

**ITM: James “Bucky” Barnes**

“Really.” _[Bucky’s on the same balcony, wearing a zip-up sweater with white stitches along the pockets and collar. There’s a necklace and what looks to be one of Steve’s white exercise shirts underneath; he tugs on the necklace now, chewing his lip as he frowns.]_ “Well, I promised Becca and Clint I’d get them souvenirs wherever I went, and I need a fridge magnet for the filing cabinet back at the shop. How the hell am I supposed to do that if I can’t leave the damn room? ...Whatever, just give me my room key.”

_[Someone off-screen mumbles something distantly. Bucky’s mouth drops open.]_

“Are you _kidding?”_

_[The mumbling continues.]_

“Isn’t that a fire hazard?!” _[Bucky runs a hand through his hair as his tone turns pleading.]_ “C’mon, at least give me a chance to sneak out, what they don’t know won’t hurt ‘em—” _[He stops short, listening.]_ “Yeah, but you’re different, you’re _nice._ Come on, Pepper. I could handle this shit in the mansion, maybe, but are you really gonna fly me out to Phoenix and _not_ let me see the Grand Canyon—”

* * *

**ITM: Loki Laufeyson**

“I’m terribly sorry, but you told me last night that we’d ‘talk about it tomorrow’, so you really can’t fault me for bringing it up again.” _[He grins, but he’s clearly pissed.]_ “I tolerated the indignity of coming here without being paid, but this is a _nationally televised show._ Why are we flying _coach?!”_

* * *

According to his physical therapist, he’s not supposed to crack the knuckles on his left hand anymore or something. According to his _mental_ therapist, he’s not supposed to crack the knuckles on his left hand anymore or something. According to his mother and his sister, if he cracks the knuckles on his left hand, their Barnes blood will alert them of the fact and they will track him down and cut _off_ his left hand.

Bucky cracks the knuckles on his left hand, slowly and methodically. He gnaws on his lip, digging his teeth angrily; he jitters his foot nervously, knocking it against the leg of the lone armchair in the bedroom. Pinky, ring, middle, pointer; he laces his fingers together, stretching them out so forcefully he feels his elbow pop in its socket, and then cracks the joints in his fingers for good measure, because _fuck_ him. Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him. Each pop makes his head feel a little clearer—and it’s not like it hurts, anyway, because _fuck him,_ am I right?

He’s going for his thumb—it doesn’t make a fucking _sound,_ god damn it—when Steve lets himself into the room.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

No, Bucky doesn’t really want to talk about it. Then again, right now Bucky doesn’t really _want_ anything other than to wallow in his own fucking stupidity or hunker down with some mindlessly calming Netflix original or maybe exit the show immediately via balcony, even, and since he probably can’t do any of those things right now he settles for nodding his head, then shaking his head, then banging his head against the headrest by tilting it backwards and frowning. Yeah, that just about sums up his life right now.

“That’s fine.” Steve hums to himself, digging through his suitcase before resurfacing with The Two Towers again. He settles himself on their bed, tucking his feet under the covers. “Do you mind if I sit here with you, for a while?”

No, he doesn't. Bucky shakes his head.

“Alright.” Steve’s got this weird soothing tone going on, which Bucky thinks should piss him off more than it actually is. “You can talk to me if you want to.”

“What—” Bucky clears his throat. “What did Thor say?”

“He asked me if you were okay.” Steve smiles thinly at him, waiting for a second, but he returns to his book without comment when Bucky turns away.

Because Steve is a _nice fucking person._ And Thor is _also a nice fucking person,_ and Bucky likes to _think_ that he’s a nice fucking person and he does his best to _be_ a nice fucking person and he’s supposed to have his shit together, he’s not supposed to let things like not being called on a one-on-one date rile him up or whatever when he _knows_ what the show is like and should be prepared for this shit. Their penthouse is great. It’s nice. Sun shining through big glass windows or whatever. Tony Stark had handed him a date card to read, and Bucky had said Thor’s name, and then for some bullshit reason he’d totally lost his shit and stormed right out of the room and this is _definitely_ going on television and they won’t even need to spin it because the devil stuck his hand up Bucky’s ass like a puppet and Bucky _lost his fucking mind._

“Christ, what is _happening_ to me?!”

“It’s the show,” Steve says, slipping his old date card back into his book as a placeholder and sliding it into the drawer of their bedside table despite the fact he’s barely flipped a page. “It happens to everyone. It happened to me, remember? And when I was blaming myself, you reminded me—”

“Oh, fuck _right_ off, Steve, we can’t all be self-flagellating martyrs,” Bucky snaps, hopping to his feet and practically storming around the room in aimless, misguided anger. He immediately regrets it, obviously, because Steve is a nice fucking person and Thor is a nice fucking person and Bucky’s just being a _colossal fucking asshole_ who can’t stop fucking up. “I’m not blaming myself, I’m just—hours. They made us sit there for literal fucking _hours_ talking about _bullshit,_ waiting and waiting for fucking _nothing,_ all so Tony Stark could show up and hand Thor a date card for two _literal minutes._ And this is so fucking _stupid,_ because I like Thor; he’s a nice fucking guy, just like _you’re_ a nice fucking guy, just like T’Challa is a nice fucking guy and Strange is probably fine and Jack is kind of a douche but also probably has a mother who loves his ugly personality, I don’t know. Is it _really_ crazy if I’m already this pissed off that I haven’t gotten a fucking date? I’m pretty sure I don’t even _want_ a date, not after your fucking nightmare date, which—sorry, not a nightmare, I’m sure it was fucking magical, I don’t—but it feels kinda like everyone I know and love here is ahead of me and—” Bucky sputters for a minute as his brain begins running out of English words. “—Is this weird? I feel like this has gotten weird.”

“It’s not weird.” Steve bites at his lip, brow creasing. “Strangely enough, I think I actually understand exactly what you’re saying. Like all your effort and energy goes to waste, right?”

“Like my time is worth _jack shit,_ is what it feels like,” Bucky breathes out in a giant sigh as he runs his hand through his hair. “I’ve only spent a few hours with Sharon, I’m pretty sure it’s not about _her,_ it’s just—I’m not used to all this shit, opening up this fast or whatever or saying all that romantic shit, and it feels like I have to do this or say that and—for what, so I can sit around at their beck and call until they need me on camera to _not_ get a date? How am I supposed to put up with that shit when it’s pretty fucking clear that the odds aren’t in my favor and nothing I do here is making Sharon any more likely to pick me anyway? Why the hell am I putting _up_ with this, is my self-esteem that low or something?”

“...Look, this shit fucking sucks—”

“Oh, like _you’d_ understand, you literally _just_ had a one-on-one date.” Whatever, Bucky’s on a roll, why _not_ fuck up his best friendship in the house if he’s not gonna be on the show much longer anyway? Besides, Steve’s the fucking _first impression rose,_ he has _no idea_ how fucking stupidly like garbage Bucky feels just because he didn’t catch the attention of Sharon or something, like his time’s being invalidated or whatever—

“And I’m not going to get _another_ date for a while.” Steve sighs, patting the side of the bed. Bucky screeches to a stop, his arm jittering restlessly, but in the end he settles for throwing himself dramatically into his own side, yanking over Steve’s pillows, and sullenly burrowing into it. Maybe if he’s lucky he’ll die here and never have to come out again. “Look, I get it—I’m in a good place compared to a lot of you, so I _should_ feel secure. But...I know it doesn’t help you, and I know it’s dumb, but I just _don’t._ When I was on that date, feeling like I was special or chosen or whatever? It was a huge fucking rush, a high basically all the way—excluding weird producer shit, of course. But the moment I saw her at that rose ceremony with the others, it feels like freaking whiplash...like ‘wow, she obviously didn’t feel as strongly about that date as I did, because if she did why would she be talking to everybody else?’” He flaps his hand inarticulately. “And I—I know it’s gotta sound stupid compared to the situation you’re in, but all I know is I’m about to be on a group date where Sharon’s having all these good moments with other men and I’m gonna wonder if I was hallucinating all the good things about our relationship on our one-on-one. And that’s gonna spiral into wondering if I’m fundamentally misunderstanding her, or if I just don’t mean as much to her as she does to me—” He cuts off sheepishly, glancing up at Bucky. “The point I’m trying to make is that relationships are supposed to be between equals, and the reason we’re all going nuts is because all fourteen of us are in a position where we’re basically all expendable and interchangeable. You kinda blew up there, sure, and Thor didn’t deserve that. But we all know _why._ We’re all feeling the same shitty feelings as you, and—well. None of us are gonna blame you for this.” Steve pauses, thinking. “Except maybe Rumlow and Rollins, but they’re not exactly self-aware.”

On one hand, the idea that this a side-effect of their collective stress is a little comforting because it takes the onus off Bucky. On the other hand, he’s just been a dick to Steve, a nice fucking person who _doesn’t deserve_ this shit. A nice fucking person who doesn’t deserve this shit who Bucky swore, not one week ago, that he wasn’t gonna end up fighting with. Holy _God,_ he’s screwing things up spectacularly. It’s gonna be a great week. “I’m sorry, Steve. I didn’t consider...well, I just...” There isn’t really a good set of words to articulate what exactly he’s done, but Bucky settles for waving his hand helplessly like that will replace words and feelings.

“Like I said, it’s not your fault.” Steve smiles comfortingly, nudging Bucky with his leg. “It’s this environment.”

“This _goddamn_ environment.” Bucky groans, sinking back into his pillow pile and letting the blankets take him. Suddenly all he wants is the sweet release of death, but he’ll settle for a twenty hour nap. “If this keeps up, I’m gonna have a freaking meltdown—well, more of one than I’ve already had. I swear, these demons are personally testing my patience.”

“It’s this fucking waiting,” Steve sighs, a hard edge creeping into his voice. “Like our time isn’t worth their attention. For _two hours,_ we just sat there waiting—”

“The _fucking waiting!”_ Bucky shoots back up. “What is _up_ with that?! We wait _before_ dates to hear who’s gonna go on them, we wait _on_ dates for twenty fuckin’ minutes alone with Sharon if we’re lucky, we’re waiting around on all the _other_ days for literally anything to happen at all—like, I got out of bed early and dressed myself up for this? I exfoliated? For _this?!”_ The brief flash of anger is gone as quickly as it came; Bucky lets himself collapse back into the pillows, wiggling around until he gets comfortable. “I don’t even know what I’m getting so angry about, honestly. It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do with my time after the filming’s done, anyway.” All there really is _to_ do is obsess over Sharon and the other men in the house and his place and shit, which yeah, _great_ idea, just get more and more pent up about the relationship dynamics, that sounds like wonderful plan.

“I mean, speak for yourself. _I_ promised a certain someone I’d read Lord of the Rings.” Steve taps his finger against the bedside table. “Speaking of which, I’m about done with The Two Towers. Think you can get me back Fellowship of the Ring?”

“Bruce has it right now, so if you want me to get it back from him, it’ll cost you.” Lifting his head from the pillows seems like a Herculean task, so Bucky settles for stretching his arm out blindly.

“Aw, c’mon, you know we left all our Bottle Caps back at the mansion—”

“Pillow mints.” Bucky sighs, sinking further into the mattress; pillow mints, a fruit-flavored alcoholic beverage, and an episode of Queer Eye and he might even be back at home on a Saturday. And this place has the _good_ pillow mints, the kind they hand out at Olive Garden with the chocolate. “Four, please.”

“Don’t I get special treatment? For being your roommate and bestie and all that?”

“Five. ‘Bestie’ is a fake word.” Bucky doesn’t bother refuting it, though; instead, he reluctantly extricates himself from the pillow pile and tactfully ignores Steve’s smug grin as his roommate reclaims it. “I’m gonna go track down Thor and apologize. Not that it isn’t already too late, they’re definitely gonna use that footage and take it out of context.” Or in context. Geez, what a day. _“You_ should go track down some pillow mints.”

“Fuck you, Bucky.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

Bucky’s at the doorway when Steve calls out to him again, voice suspiciously light. “You know, I think they’re still trying to push that fake rivalry narrative onto us.”

When he turns to look, Steve’s conveniently turned away to rearrange the pillows back into their original positions. The tone he takes makes Bucky wonder, though. What exactly _did_ the producers say to Steve after Bucky stormed away?

“You’re the only thing that keeps me sane in this house, Rogers. They want me to turn against you, they’re gonna have to try a lot harder than that.” Bucky scoffs, turning back. Honestly, the nerve. “...And thanks. Sorry for blowing up at you.” He shuffles a little on his feet, unsure of what he’s trying to articulate; he’s feeling a lot of feelings right now. Blame it on production. “You gotta stick around, okay? Someone’s gotta keep my ass in line.”

Steve turns, blinking at him owlishly for a second before breaking abruptly into a grin. “Yeah, sure. Any time.”

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W4D2_MR_C06_QS.mxf**

_[The camera’s centered on T’Challa, sipping out of a coffee mug contemplatively as he stares out the window at nothing. For a long moment, no one says anything; finally, Pietro pipes up.]_

“That’s good. Maybe we should get some shots of you on the balcony admiring the view.”

 _[T’Challa blinks slowly.]_ “Don’t you think you’ve gotten enough?”

“I know B-rolls are boring, but we gotta have _something_ to layer over your ITM voice-overs.” _[Wanda sounds apologetic.]_ “Besides, the weather’s quite nice out. It won’t be too—”

_[There’s a sudden crash in a distant part of the penthouse, followed immediately by two sets of raised voices. The camera jostles as Pietro turns, capturing Wanda’s startled face.]_

“So we should definitely—”

“Stay here, T’Challa. We’ll be back in a second.”

_[The two of them take off toward the disturbance, working their way through several rooms; as they get closer, they hear muffled cursing and a sound that can only be the impact of weight being thrown around. Pietro picks up the pace, pulling ahead a little.]_

“If we don’t film this, we’re _so_ fired.”

“Hang on a sec...” _[Wanda pants heavily from somewhere behind him.]_ “That’s Bucky and Steve, isn’t it?”

_[As they get closer, the voices are unmistakable; it’s coming from Bucky and Steve’s shared bedroom.]_

“They’re not actually fighting, are they?”

“They seemed so close!”

_[Snippets of the argument can be heard.]_

“—you dare, James Buchanan Barnes, don’t you fucking _dare—”_

“—You deserve it, what kind of heathen stops watching _Parks and Recreation_ after season _three?!_ That’s the _best fucking season!”_

“I was _getting_ to it, it’s not my fault I can’t watch Netflix here—wipe that look off your face, don’t you fucking say another word, Bucky, don’t you say it—”

“—Leslie and Ben break up—”

“—NO!—”

“—And they try to stay friends—”

“—ONE MORE WORD AND YOU WILL NEVER SEE FELLOWSHIP OF THE RING AGAIN, I SWEAR TO GOD—”

“—AND THEY END UP PICKING UP AGAIN AND GETTING IN TROUBLE—NICE TRY, STEVE, I’VE GOT THREE COPIES AT HOME—AND BEN—”

_[Pietro and Wanda round the corner just in time to see Steve full-body tackle Bucky onto the bed and shove a pillow directly into his face, throwing himself at him so forcefully that the two of them very nearly topple over off the bed. Bucky shoves the pillow out of his face, spitting mad, but neither of them can get words out through their hysterical laughter; Steve towers over Bucky for a few more seconds before collapsing on top of him instead. Bucky thumps him a few times on the shoulder before Steve finally rolls off, the two of them gasping for air. Every now and then, they glance at each other and lapse back into giggles, Bucky still choking out disjointed syllables.]_

“...”

_[Pietro and Wanda turn and leave without another word.]_

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W4D2_MR_C20_MC2.mxf**

_[The men are all assembled together on the couch, minus Thor; they chatter together amicably, occasionally glancing over at the door. Despite their preparedness, the obscenely loud knock still makes a few of them jump. Bucky rolls his eyes.]_

“Well, I wonder what the hell _that_ could be?”

_[Scott elbows him in the side, smiling; Peter Quill, the man closest to the door, stands to get it. When he turns back around, there’s a date card in his hand. It’s comical, how the men overreact, as if surprised by the very notion.]_

“Not a date card. No way.”

_[Scott elbows Bucky again; Bucky just sticks out his tongue before ruffling Scott’s hair. Quill yanks the envelope open, pulling out two slips of paper. He clears his throat and begins reading.]_

“Cameron K...”

_[A few of the men cheer or nod; Wade leans over to thump Cameron on the back.]_

“Jack...Brock...”

_[The two fist bump.]_

“Wade...Loki...T’Challa...”

_[T’Challa ducks his head, Wade sits back, and Loki looks entirely indifferent to the proceedings.]_

“Stephen...” _[Quill stops, grinning and gesturing to his own face.]_ “Peter...”

_[A few of the men laugh.]_

“Steve, Scott, Bruce, and...Bucky.”

 _[The men turn to Rhodey, who’s evidently left for the week’s one-on-one date, and whoop as he pumps his fist in embarrassed excitement. Bucky laughs, slinging an arm around Steve’s shoulders.]_ “Looks like you’re stuck with me.”

“Yeah, yeah.” _[Steve rolls his eyes as Quill tucks away the first card, flipping to the second. The room collectively quiets down, waiting for the hint.]_

“Let’s shoot for a serious relationship. Sharon.” _[Quill puts down the card, smiling brightly.]_ “What do you think it means?”

“Maybe it’s a Playgirl photo shoot?”

“You’re still on that, aren’t you, Wade?”

“Or maybe it _is_ hunting, this time.”

“Maybe it’s a shooting range?”

“I mean, maybe it _is_ photography, but we’re taking pictures of the scenery here. We _are_ near the Grand Canyon, after all.” _[Steve bounces excitedly in place.]_ “What do you think, Buck?”

_[Bucky doesn’t answer, frozen in place with a distant expression on his face; his eyes are fixed fiercely on some point off-camera, entire body rigid as if preparing for some sort of impact.]_

“Bucky?”

 _[Bucky blinks, tearing his gaze away. When he speaks again, his voice is strained.]_ “Sure.”

* * *

**ITM: James “Bucky” Barnes**

“That’s why you put me on this date, isn’t it?” _[Bucky speaks with an eerie air of calm fury; Pepper mumbles something off-screen.]_ “Don’t fuck with me right now, Pepper, I’m serious. What exactly is going to happen tomorrow?” _[She starts another sentence, but Bucky scowls fiercely, their sentences overlapping as they argue; Bucky lets out a breath he’s been holding, running both hands wildly through his hair before bringing them back down over his face.]_ “This situation. Is so fucked up. This situation is _so_ fucked up.”

_“—gotta open up to her anyway, Bucky, that’s how you develop your relationship—”_

“Yeah, but this fucking _pressure—_ if I tell someone that shit, I want it to be _natural—_ no, this _process,_ damn it, this process isn’t fucking normal.”

* * *

It’s paintball, of course, because Bucky can’t catch a goddamn break.

(Or, alternatively, because the producers are literal hell-demons who are trying to get him to either blow up or break down by the end of the day. It’s best for his own sake that he doesn’t dwell on that possibility too much, lest he _actually_ blow up or break down.)

“Hang on a sec, are they making Peter set up that area himself?” Steve rips his mask off his face abruptly, scowling darkly. On the way up, the mask musses up his blond hair and leaves imprints along the bridge of his nose.

“I _just_ tightened the straps on that mask,” Bucky grumbles as he slings the strap with his paintball gun further up on his shoulder. It’d be bad enough even if he _weren’t_ taking this entire date as kind of a personal attack. First the limo hadn’t pulled up until late afternoon, giving Bucky basically the entire day to stress over the impending date and contemplate serious injury. Then they’d driven him out to the middle of literally nowhere, which is the kind of thing that usually only happens when people are about to get serial-killed. _Now_ he’s standing around waiting for the crew (or, apparently, Peter Parker alone) to set up the ITM area so Pepper can get some footage of him bitching some more before the sun sets and he gets thrown into the weird post-industrial Hunger Games arena so he can shoot paintballs at grown-ass men for the right to talk to Sharon for maybe ten minutes tops. To top it all off, the unflattering black coveralls they’ve put him in are baggy—sure, it’s practical, but at what _cost?_

The only silver lining in all this is that Brock Rumlow’s on the blue team. Christ, Bucky’s looking forward to shooting that fucker. The face is off-limits, apparently, but the instructor said nothing about the balls.

And, because the producers are literal hell-demons who are trying to get him to either blow up or break down by the end of the day, they put him and Steve on separate teams. Bucky stares morosely at the navy star-shaped patch on the arm of Steve’s coveralls; there’s one in maroon on his own. Whichever team loses the paintball match is gonna get sent immediately back to the house without getting to the night portion of the date and talking to Sharon, and Bucky’s got a sneaking suspicion he’s expected to shoot Steve out.

Which he will, probably. Fuck the stupid show format and everyone who made it.

“That’s it, I’ve gotta go help him.” Steve tightens the strap of his gun diagonally so it’s firmly across his back, pushing the mask all the way back onto his head. Several feet away, some cameraman’s framing a shot set against the artfully dilapidated paintball arena while Peter struggles to set up a camera stand. “Get me if someone needs me—”

“Like fun.” Great, the self-censoring’s getting to him. Bucky snarls viciously, although from the look Steve gives him the sound’s less impressive with the bulky paintball visor covering his expression. “Like _hell._ He clearly knows jack shit about that camera; they’re probably hazing him. Let me talk to ‘em.”

“Easy there, soldier.” Steve catches Bucky by the arm, looking more amused than anything as he gently removes Bucky’s hand from his gun. “First off, _you_ know jack shit about that camera. I’ve set shots up at the gallery before and I recognize the model, I can get that thing up in no time.”

Fine. “At least let me give that asshole bossing him around a dressing down—”

“While I’d normally be up for that, you’ve got the—” Steve waves a helpless hand around his face, indicating the visor Bucky’s picked out; in contrast to the garish stars-and-stripes mask Steve ended up with, Bucky managed to snag a full wrap-around face mask with tinted lenses. Have fun filming the face with _that_ thing on, fuckers.

“What about it?”

“Well, that, combined with that weird...uh, murder strut you’ve got going on—”

“Murder strut.” Bucky’s equal parts flattered, confused, and insulted. “I do not have a _murder strut._ What the fuck is a _murder strut?!”_

“I don’t know, it’s just—that thing you did? With the shoulders moving all threatening and the gun and the—I don’t know, this weird turn with your hips—”

“You’re describing walking, Steve.”

“That’s not walking, it’s too—well, it’s too _everything_ to be considered walking. Point is, if you walk over right now, you’re gonna make that cameraman piss his pants.”

“Excellent plan.” Bucky goes to stride over again, only for Steve to loop his arm right through Bucky’s and use his momentum to turn him right back around.

“You’re also gonna make _Peter_ piss his pants. C’mon, I’ll have it settled in no time.” Steve rolls his eyes, then abruptly draws himself to his full height and crosses his arms, lifting his chin stubbornly and staring at Bucky down his nose. Alright, he’ll hand it to him; it’s a remarkably effective look. Bucky’s sufficiently cowed by it, and he hasn’t even _done_ anything. And how the hell are the biceps bulging _through_ the baggy coveralls? “What, are you saying you don’t think I can handle it?”

Words can’t do his thoughts justice, so Bucky lifts his mask himself and settles for giving Steve a wry smirk and a knowing glare. “I’d like to think I know better than that by now.”

Steve, to his credit, claps Bucky on the shoulder and hands him that God-awful American flag mask _without_ making some smart remark before jogging over.

And then, because he willingly signed away his autonomy to an omniscient pantheon of asshole network executives a few months ago, Christine Everhart swoops in like a vulture the _moment_ Steve’s out of listening distance, because Steve is the only thing that keeps him sane.

“Come with me.”

“Sure,” mutters Bucky, shoving his own mask back over his face and slinging Steve’s over the hopper by the strap. If he’s gonna have to face down the literal devil, he might as well inspire as much fear as possible. “Not like I have anything better to do.”

It’s true. He doesn’t. _Fuck_ this show.

Christine leads him a little further off into the woods—far enough that the gaggle of men can’t hear them, close enough that Bucky’s at least relatively certain she won’t murder him to turn this show into a murder mystery. Bucky puts his hand on the paintball gun just in case (and also possibly for dramatic effect, it be like that sometimes).

“So.” Christine crosses her arms, taking on a waspish look. “Pepper told me yesterday that you were still making up your mind about whether or not to tell Sharon about your military history today.”

...These _fuckers._

“Just so we’re clear.” He draws out each word as poisonously slowly as possible, just in case they’ll maybe understand it if he says it for the _fifth_ time. “I _was_ making up my mind, back before you all decided to take matters in your own hands. Now that I’m here—being _actively_ manipulated, might I add—I’m starting to feel a little less forthcoming about the whole thing.”

“Why, because we set up the perfect scenario for you to get some personal time and tie in your shared life experience to your date?” Christine arches an eyebrow. “Pepper suggested this because she thought you’d be glad to have an excuse to bring it up. Apparently, you don’t like it when things aren’t progressing _naturally.”_

Given the _natural_ progression of this conversation, Bucky’s about to pick up his gun and paint a nice red target on her fancy black pantsuit. And Pepper’s, although given who he’s talking to, he’s more than a little skeptical. “That’s assuming my team even wins the one-on-one time.”

“You were a sniper before your medical discharge, weren’t you?” Christine lets her gaze trail down to his left side; Bucky reflexively clenches and unclenches his left fist, resisting the urge to shove it behind his back. “Maybe you’re not practicing regularly, but if you've recovered enough and the injury didn’t severely hinder your mobility...”

Bucky feels the sudden urge to crack his knuckles. Again. Forcefully. On a _nearby tree._ “Oh, well as long as my trauma doesn’t stop me from _shooting a paintball gun on television.”_

“Well, if it doesn’t, it’s a pretty safe bet that your team’s going to win that one-on-one time.” And then she has the audacity to blink up at him and ask. “It doesn’t, does it?”

Oh, as if they don’t already know everything about him. This is a psyche-out tactic, 100%, but just in case Christine Everhart is capable of feeling a metric nanoliter of remorse in that gaping maw where a soul would normally be for making a veteran relive his battlefield injury, Bucky says it anyway. “If I had to pull the trigger with it or reach behind my head, maybe, but I can still do larger motions without twitching. Oh, and most of the nerve endings are shot to hell, so I can’t feel anything, _just like you.”_

“Look, I’m telling you this because no one else is going to.” Christine blathers on, but Bucky’s shaking so badly at this point, blindingly hot with rage and fidgeting wildly, that the words take a hot minute to register properly. “Sharon likes you, sure, but Pepper’s taking it too soft with you guys by letting you decide what to tell her and when. I’ve been making sure my contestants have been opening up properly and holding nothing back; that means you—”

“How nice of you,” Bucky says, fucking _an entire sentence clause_ too late to be relevant. Christine gives him a look like he’s gone insane, openly skeptical, and wow, would you look at that, Bucky wants to crack his knuckles against _her face_ and then run into the woods and fucking _disappear._

“...That means you’re falling behind,” she finishes, as if he hasn’t said anything at all. Bucky’s hands go up to clutch at the strap, because if he doesn’t he’s gonna start digging his fingernails into his palms and apparently that’s bad for him for a reason he _can’t remember right now._ “If you to throw the relationship you’ve built away, by all means, sit on the sidelines and keep your mouth shut. I know it takes bravery to talk about your feelings, but you need to understand that most of the other men have already stepped—”

“I don’t give a _f-fuck,”_ Bucky spits out through clenched teeth, but he fucking _stutters over the word_ like a goddamn _coward._ The momentary weakness is all Christine needs; she smiles grimly, smelling blood in the water.

“When you applied, we were worried you might not be able to develop more than a surface-level attachment—given your track record, you understand.” Christine shakes her head, face arranged into something pitying and remorseful. “I don’t want you to end up on the next flight home, but if you do, I’ll be sad to see you go.”

Bucky opens his mouth, but instead of saying something snarky or angry or legitimately fucking _anything,_ all he manages is a choked breath. His head feels too hot—and his hands feel too cold—and Jesus fucking Christ, there’s sweat fogging up those _stupid_ paintball lenses and Christine is staring at him and wow, fucking _wow,_ he has to work his jaw and clench his eyes shut because fuck him if he’s gonna cry in front of this _asshole—_

“Bucky?”

Steve—of course it’s Steve, God fucking _bless,_ Bucky could kiss that stupid face—comes racing right past Christine, startling her out of the way as he makes his way over to Bucky. He’s still got his stupid fucked up hair and mask lines, even as he skids to a stop between the two of them, looking bemusedly between them as his grin fades off his face. _“There_ you are, Scott mentioned you’d wandered off. I’m gonna need that mask back—”

Bucky’s face might be hidden behind the paintball mask, but something in his body language and Christine’s expression must tip Steve off, because he abruptly cuts himself off even as he reaches over and takes his mask off Bucky’s gun. He takes a step closer, subtly angling himself between Christine and Bucky even as he doesn’t acknowledge her, and puts a hand on his shoulder to lead him away. “...Anyway, let’s go. The sun’s gonna set in an hour, so they’re letting us do ITMs, _finally.”_ Although his words are technically still conversational, everything about Steve’s tone and body language bristles with tension. He squeezes Bucky’s shoulder twice in quick succession; somehow, it succeeds in grounding him. Bucky brings a hand up and swipes it roughly against his lenses, temporarily forgetting about his mask. God, he’s an _idiot_ today. Steve keeps talking, voice firm and low as he begins walking them back past Christine. “You would not believe the hoops I had to jump through before they let me touch that camera—”

“Actually, Bucky and I were in the middle of a conversation.”

Steve stiffens. _Shit._

“I’ll be fine, Steve.” Sadly, even Bucky doesn’t sound convinced; if anything, the startlingly watery edge to his voice makes Steve’s grip on his shoulder tighten even more. The _last_ thing either of them need is to piss off production, especially if Steve’s got a real shot at an engagement here. He manages to dredge up a laugh; with the mask, the requisite accompanying smirk doesn’t matter. “What, you think I can’t handle—”

“Actually, Captain Rogers, this might be of some interest to you.”

Steve was a _Captain?_ The house knows he’s a veteran by now, sure, but Bucky’s spine practically leaps instinctively into parade rest in the presence of a commanding officer.

“Bucky here was also a Sergeant in the Army, as it turns out—” Oh, right, because _Bucky_ doesn’t need to be addressed with his title. “—but he, unlike you, is ashamed of his time serving his country and refuses to tell Sharon about it despite the fact that she _also_ served.”

“I’m not _ashamed,”_ Bucky tries to protest, but at this point it barely comes out as a mumble. Steve’s hand is so tight on Bucky’s shoulder at that point that he nearly flinches; and yep, his eyes are starting to water again. He’s not _ashamed,_ damn it, if he could only use his _words_ like an _adult._ “I’m just—”

“What do you think of that?” Christine raises an eyebrow, eyes flickering somewhere over Bucky’s shoulder. Oh. _Fuck._ Is someone filming this? Because why _not_ get Bucky fucking crying on camera, at least he’s not blowing up...

...because Steve’s covering that part for him, shifting his focus to Christine with a quick motion and a literal fucking audible _snarl._ “I think it’s none of your damn business.”

The producer blinks slowly, eyebrows rising in slight surprise. Did she _really_ think Steve would actually take her side? “Don’t you think he should tell her, though? After all the trouble you went through to open up to her, don’t you think he needs to earn his place here?”

“I _think_ you assholes have done enough.”

“But how could he possibly respect you, Sharon, or the sacrifices you’ve made if he’s hiding away his _own_ history like it’s shameful?” Christine actually _laughs,_ probably more as a show of incredulity than actual humor, sure, but wow, somehow Bucky feels like shit either way. “How can he expect to have a meaningful relationship with her if he hides—”

“Well, if you want to know what I think so _badly.”_ The hand on Bucky’s shoulder twitches away suddenly as Steve suddenly rounds fully on Christine, the low growl in his voice now out at full force as he lets go on the tight leash he’s been keeping. _“I_ think that all our relationships would be a lot more meaningful if all of us, Bucky included, opened up to Sharon because we _felt_ comfortable with her and trusted her with our lives, rather than because you vultures _told_ us to. Bucky’s a fucking _veteran,_ for God’s sake, and not only are you telling me something he trusted you with that he probably wasn’t _fucking ready to tell me,_ you’re pressuring him to announce it on national television.”

It’s gratifying, in a disconnected way, to see Christine take a physical step back from Steve’s ongoing outburst. “He _came out_ to Sharon on their first date, I don’t understand why this is—”

“Are you _seriously_ using his sexuality as a reason to _invade his fucking privacy?!”_ Bucky feels his knees nearly buckle in relief as Steve, counterintuitively enough, backs away from Christine to instead place himself between Bucky and the camera. Mask or not, he still feels ridiculously violated right now. “Bucky fucking Barnes does _not_ deserve to have all the details of his life cut up and aired nationwide just because _you_ want better ratings, and—hold on, Jesus Christ, if you _put him on this date_ for the sole purpose of manipulating him into a no-win situation, I swear to _God_ I will walk out on this show and into the _goddamn forest_ right now, contract be damned—”

“That’s enough.” Pepper’s voice cuts through Steve’s progressively aggravated outburst sharply; the three of them all turn toward her from where she’s striding over, flanked from a distance by the camera. Ugh. Of course the most _humiliating_ moment of Bucky’s life is on camera. Pepper looks the three of them over, expression becoming stonier with each passing second. “What the hell’s happening over here?”

“Did you tell Christine to guilt Bucky into talking about his time in the military?” Steve barks out without preamble, expression drawn tight. He looks like he’s ready to shout _her_ down too; Bucky jerks his head in his best approximation of a shake, given his current unsteadiness, and Steve’s hackles lower as Pepper frowns.

“I’m not gonna lie, we wanted him to talk about it.” Pepper turns her gaze to Christine, settling finally on a sharp glare. “But, as I told Christine last night, Bucky and I agreed that he’d think about it. And that he didn’t have to, if he really didn’t want to.”

Christine shrugs, unapologetic, but she doesn’t quite meet Steve or Bucky’s eyes. “I’m just doing your job, Pepper.”

“Your _job?!_ If it’s your _job_ to verbally abuse and harass your unpaid contestants until—”

“That’s enough, Steve.” Pepper’s eyes dart sharply toward the camera in warning; Steve seethes, looking ready to protest, but Bucky nudges his shoulder and he stays thankfully silent. The odds of airing an argument between producers are contestants are low, maybe, but with Steve so rarely involved in drama... “Take a minute. I’ll be back to call you for ITMs.”

“ITMs? _Really?!”_ Steve snarls, even as Pepper gives them a last apologetic glance and steers Christine bodily away. The camera backs off with them, but given that there’s finally an airable shot of two generally unflappable contestants without producers in the process of both blowing up _and_ breaking down, there’s no way they’re not being filmed somehow. Bucky gulps shakily, trying to ignore how badly his hands are shaking and how fucking stupidly much he wants to curl up somewhere and crack his knuckles and maybe have a good cry. “After all this shit they’ve done to you, they’re _still_ focused on getting their precious footage—”

_“Steve.”_

He doesn’t manage to get anything else out, but it doesn’t matter; Steve’s there in an instant, hands smoothing comfortingly over the shoulders of Bucky’s fucking god-awful paintball coveralls. He yanks Bucky’s mask off in a swift motion, peeking intently into his eyes—and great, apparently whatever expression he’s wearing is enough to switch Steve in an instant from anger and righteous wrath to concern and alarm. The hands on Bucky’s shoulders grip tighter and pull, making Bucky stumble a few shaky steps closer. “Bucky—Jesus, Bucky, are you gonna be okay?”

“Steve—” Oh, fucking hell, he’s in it now, he’s _crying._ Full-on ugly crying, complete with disgusting half-choked sobbing sounds, he can’t fucking _hold it together—_ and he’s still got the mic pack on him, they’re gonna hear and see _everything._ “Cameras—”

Steve doesn’t waste another second before pulling Bucky into him, wrapping both arms tightly around Bucky’s shoulders and spinning them so Bucky’s facing away from the camera. He angles his jaw over Bucky’s shoulder, maneuvering them so his face shields Bucky’s from the camera; one of Steve’s stupidly big hands goes to Bucky’s long hair and eases the way. Steve doesn’t go so far as to force Bucky’s face into his shoulder, his grip loose and tentative, but it kind of doesn’t matter; Bucky’s having a moment of damn vulnerability and the moment those stupid big arms get all the way around him, he drops his weight fully into Steve and rubs his face directly into the shoulder of those fucking hideous coveralls and cries like a goddamn _baby._

And don’t get it wrong—it _sucks._ The entire thing is fucking goddamn bullshit. But Steve’s still got his arms all the way around him with one hand petting half-awkwardly and half-comfortingly in his hair, and he’s warm but his grip’s not too oppressive even though Bucky’s pretty sure he’s got his nails digging all the way into Steve’s back like a fucking lifeline, giving him an out at any time, and fuck, it’s been a fucking month but Steve _cares_ for Bucky and Bucky trusts Steve so goddamn _much._

It’s a passing thought brought on by the emotional catharsis of a good cry, gone so quickly that he doesn’t have time to dwell on it: under different circumstances, Steve Rogers is the type of person Bucky might fall for.

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W4D3_D_GDPREP_C10_QS.mxf**

“Stop filming them.” _[Wanda’s voice cuts in, stern but surprisingly soft. The camera zooms back and forth uncertainly for a second on Steve, who’s holding Bucky tightly to him and glaring fiercely over Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky’s head hitches in jarred, shaky breaths; quiet whimpers can be heard occasionally from the mic.]_

“They’re going to want this footage.” _[Pietro speaks slowly, reluctantly.]_

“Then someone else will get it.” _[Bucky and Steve’s breathing quiets as Wanda turns down the volume on her microphone.]_ “Please, Pietro.”

_[Pietro sighs, panning away accordingly. By the area set up for ITMs, three producers—Pepper Potts, Christine Everhart, and Maria Hill—are holding a hushed, angry conversation. Host Tony Stark stands with them, expression uncharacteristically serious; he interjects occasionally, voice low. They’re too far away to be picked up by the camera.]_

“What do you think they’re saying?”

“I don’t want to know.”

_[Pietro keeps panning; most of the other men are purposely looking away from Bucky and Steve, offering them some modicum of privacy as they talk and stretch, although they continue to glance over and whisper in hushed tones. A little distance away, Brock stares openly at the two of them with an inscrutable expression. He looks over, however, when Sharon enters the clearing alongside her producer. She takes a quick look around before making a beeline straight to the men.]_

“Hey, guys.” _[She frowns, looking troubled; her producer, Phil Coulson, nods to her before making his way over to the hushed argument.]_ “What’s going on?”

“Honestly? We’re not really sure.” _[Cameron K. jerks his head over to the producers, who are now talking over each other as they explain things to an increasingly miffed Phil.]_ “Whatever it is, it’s something with Bucky and the producers; Christine dragged him off, and whatever she said...well.”

_[Sharon’s eyes turn steely in a second; she shoves her hands fiercely into the pockets of her hunting vest, nods in thanks, and turns to stride over to Steve and Bucky without another word. Steve, who catches notice of her first, leans down to whisper something to Bucky; the two pull apart. Bucky looks remarkably put-together, save for the redness of his face.]_

“You have to turn it up now.”

_[Wanda sighs, but now that the lead’s returned and Bucky’s no longer hiding his face, she turns the volume up so they can hear the conversation.]_

“—don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

 _[Bucky shakes his head and sighs, trying to muster up his usual smirk.]_ “If I didn’t know better, Carter, I’d say you cared about me.”

 _[Sharon laughs, taking a step back and leaning comfortably against a nearby tree.]_ “I do, though. You know that, right?” _[Bucky nods, and the three of them fall silent again.]_ “You really don’t have to tell me, Bucky. I meant that. But you need to know that it’s okay to be vulnerable.” _[She leans forward briefly, touching Bucky’s wrist.]_ “I know they’ve got this—image of you built up, but you’re human. You know it’s okay to feel hurt when they cross the line, don’t you?”

 _[Bucky glances toward Steve; Steve nods encouragingly.]_ “I know.” _[Bucky pauses, wavering, before suddenly and impulsively pulling Sharon into a quick hug.]_ “Thanks, Sharon.”

“No problem.” _[Sharon pauses, but when Bucky doesn’t offer anything else, she merely smiles and easily changes the subject.]_ “And listen—don’t let anything _Christine Everhart_ says bother you. She tries to talk a big game, but she’s always stuck with the worst contestants; my season of _The Bachelor,_ every single one of her contestants puked on her at least once during filming.”

“...All of them?” _[Bucky snorts incredulously; Steve seems to hold himself back from commenting with extreme difficulty.]_ “How were they even all around _long_ enough for that?”

“To be fair, I’m pretty sure Scarlett was deliberately aiming for her by that point.” _[Sharon snickers.]_ “But yeah, everyone threw up on her. _Twice.”_

“...How?!”

“Well, I don’t wanna go into too much detail, but the week they accidentally delivered bad shellfish to the Bachelor Mansion was the same week Taja decided to try her hand at bouillabaisse without a recipe.” _[There’s a moment of stunned silence.]_ “There’s a reason they usually don’t let us cook, but we ignored all the warnings.”

_[The three of them laugh for a moment; Sharon mimes a motion with her hands that sends Bucky and Steve further into hysterics as she grins.]_

“...Thanks, Sharon.”

“Any time, Bucky.” _[She straightens up, stretching with a sigh.]_ “I gotta get back to everyone else now, probably, but are you good?”

“Honestly? I’m getting there.” _[Bucky glances between Steve and Sharon, who are both looking at him.]_ “Seriously. I’ll catch up.”

_[Sharon nods, sending them a mock salute and jogging over to the gaggle of producers. Steve and Bucky watch after her for a moment.]_

“She’s pretty great, huh?”

“Yeah.” _[Steve’s attention is immediately back on Bucky.]_ “Hey, are you sure you’re up for this?”

 _[Bucky rolls his eyes, adjusting the straps of his mask in response. He pauses as he begins putting it back on his face, turning to Steve with a cocksure grin.]_ “Afraid I’ll kick your team’s ass, Stevie?”

“That’s Captain Rogers to you, Sergeant.”

“Oh, you’re gonna get it now.” _[Bucky snickers as Steve drops his authoritative tone, strapping his own brightly colored helmet on.]_

“I’m betting on it.” _[Steve thumps his helmet once.]_ “Seriously, though, Buck. You good?”

“I’m good.” _[Bucky takes his gun in both hands, testing the grip before turning back to Steve. When he speaks, there’s a note of smug challenge in his voice.]_ “Matter of fact, I’m gonna show you just how good I really am.”

* * *

**ITM: James “Bucky” Barnes**

_[Bucky’s standing in an area overlooking the paintball arena; a few faux-crumbling walls and chain-link fences are behind him, juxtaposed against the setting sun. His face is a little less red, and he looks otherwise remarkably collected and serene. Pepper speaks from behind the camera, tone apologetic.]_

_“You feeling okay?”_

“Yeah, Pep, I’m good.” _[He runs a hand through his hair, which is still thoroughly mussed.]_

_“I’m really sorry—”_

“You don’t have to apologize, Pepper. I believe you when you say that wasn’t what you wanted. What’s done is done.” _[He takes a deep breath, looking to the camera as he starts speaking again.]_ “I haven’t been totally honest with Sharon: I was a sergeant in the army up until a few years ago, when I got an honorable discharge for medical reasons. I sustained an injury in the field, which...well, it limits some of the mobility in my left arm and damaged most of the nerve endings. If my team wins the paintball match and gets to go to the one-on-one time, I’m going to let her know.”

_“What made you make that decision?”_

“It’s only fair, after what she did for me today.” _[Bucky smiles.]_ “I was reluctant to, honestly, but not anymore. What she said really struck home—she showed me she wouldn’t judge me, that she’s dependable, so I’m gonna repay that trust and trust her with this too.”

_“Could you see yourself falling for her?”_

_[For a second, Bucky looks frozen, hesitating; his eyes go to the camera and he sighs minutely.]_

“I...could definitely see myself falling in love here.” _[He nods to himself almost subconsciously, eyebrows creasing as he frowns doubtfully to himself.]_ “When someone stands by you in tough moments, even at their own potential expense, that level of loyalty and trust really makes you think about the success of a long-term relationship.”

_“You really feel that strongly about her?”_

_[He blinks, expression clearing.]_ “Yeah, of course. For now, though, I’ll settle for getting that one-on-one time. If nothing else, Sharon’s an amazing woman to have in your corner. I’m ready to get out into that arena and prove I’m worthy of that relationship.”

_“And are you determined to win?”_

“You kidding? I’m gonna win if it’s the last fucking thing I do.” _[He laughs, loose-limbed and easygoing again.]_ “After all, I’ve got something to prove.”

_“You know...off the record, Bucky, I’m glad you’re feeling this good. I was worried that incident would ruin the day for you.”_

“Honestly?” _[Bucky shrugs.]_ “I thought it would too, but I’m feeling pretty good.” _[He stares fondly over the barrel of the paintball gun, trailing the fingers of his right hand over it.]_ “I’m really _not_ ashamed of my time in the military, you know. I’m not proud of everything I did over there, or all the decisions we made—it’s not a part of my life I focus on—but when all’s said and done, I don’t regret going over there. I know I went into it wanting to help and protect my country and the people important to me.”

_“I don’t doubt it for a second.”_

_[Bucky gives the camera a roguish grin, eyes flashing mischievously.]_ “Besides, I’ve got one of the best shooting records of everyone I know—I’ve got a reputation to uphold, and I don’t plan on failing now. I’m gonna take every one of those fuckers on the blue team out.”

_“I’m gonna have to bleep that out.”_

“Every. Single. One.” _[Bucky smiles again.]_ _“Fuckers.”_

_“Anyone in particular?”_

“Oh, like you don’t know.” _[Bucky glances over somewhere off camera, expression brightening.]_ “In fact, if I’m not mistaken...”

* * *

**ITM: Steve Rogers**

_[Steve’s in the main area of the woods; men are milling around him, gathering equipment and stretching as they get ready. Steve’s smiling brightly, hands on his hips as he talks, the blue star prominent on his arm.]_

“I’m really hoping the blue team can snag a victory today. Winning that one-on-one time with Sharon tonight would be amazing—I’m gonna put my all into this match. No one’s gonna be able to distract me from my goal—”

_[Bucky skids into the shot, mask dangling from his free hand; he grabs Steve’s shoulder with the other, crowding in close behind Steve and putting his lips right by Steve’s ear.]_

“Ben gives up his job for Leslie!”

_[Bucky races back off as if he hadn’t stopped running at all, cackling wildly. Steve, still frozen in the same position, closes his eyes and takes a single deep breath. He opens his eyes again and stares directly into the camera.]_

“Excuse me for a second.”

_[Steve darts after Bucky without another word. Off-screen, more hysterical laughter can be heard, followed by distant shouting.]_

_“JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES!”_

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W4D3_D_GDPB_C40_MC3.mxf**

_[It’s night time now; the only lights come from a few flickering light bulbs in some of the fake buildings and the full moon high in the sky. The mounted camera is of a blurry CCTV quality, but it sufficiently captures the eerily quiet paintball arena; occasional skirmishes and flurries break out here and there. Close to the area the camera’s filming, a group of men with blue stars on their shoulders are huddled behind walls. One lifts his head to check through a window, and the light catches on a bright stars-and-stripes mask. Suddenly, a shot rings out.]_

“Out!” _[One of the men behind the wall takes off his mask and jogs off the field with his hands up; it’s Bruce. The rest of the assembled blue team glance around for the source of the shot.]_

“Where the hell did it come from?”

“It hit him in the right in the chest.” _[The man who was huddled right next to Bruce—Cameron, judging from the voice, gestures to the general area.]_ “Right around here—”

_[Another shot. Red paint blooms right in the area Cameron was gesturing to; there’s a moment of stunned silence before he takes off his own mask and laughs.]_

“That’s me. I’m out.” _[He begins exiting the field in the same direction.]_ “We should really consider changing positions—”

_[Three or four shots ring out in quick succession; Steve narrowly dodges the barrage, rolling out of the way as the wall behind him is stained red.]_

“Out.” _[Steve ducks behind another wall, glancing at the man next to him.]_ “Brock, seriously, there’s red paint on your coveralls. You’re _out.”_

“Damn it!” _[Brock rips off his own mask, a terrifying helmet with white paint sprayed across the front; he glares around furiously.]_ “Who the _hell_ keeps getting us out?!”

“I don’t know, but whoever it is, this is _not_ fair—I’m out. I’m out.” _[Jack peeks out from behind his own wall, only to suddenly get shot in the now-exposed portion of his arm.]_ “Who’s left on red?”

“Loki, Bucky, and Quill, but no one’s seen Loki since the match started.”

“No, I shot out Quill a little while back.”

“Who’s left on blue?!”

“Scott and Steve, I think—”

“No, Wade got Scott out earlier. Steve’s the only one left.”

“Steve, you gotta carry us here.”

“Steve?”

_[Steve throws himself out of the way as another round of shots ring out, narrowly dodging paintballs as he throws himself behind another wall. When he finds a moment to steady himself, blinking and looking around, his eyes suddenly fix on some distant high point; whatever he sees, he smiles and salutes with a grin before bolting out of the camera’s view. If one looked closely, they might see a slight blur of motion on the roof of a building in that general direction as someone faintly starts whistling Andy Grammer’s ‘Keep Your Head Up’.]_

* * *

**ITM: Steve Rogers**

_“Are you sad about losing the paintball game?”_

“Losing the game definitely hurts.” _[Steve runs a hand through his hair with a sigh, but he doesn’t look too put out.]_ “Not only did I let myself down, I let the rest of my team down. Losing that one-on-one time sucks, and now I know I won’t have a chance to see her again until the next rose ceremony.”

* * *

**ITM: James “Bucky” Barnes**

_“You won!”_

“I won.” _[Bucky smiles widely, both hands still clamped around his paintball gun. He’s still breathing a little heavily, a light sheen of sweat on his brow.]_ “Definitely feels good to win.”

_“Are you excited for tonight?”_

“I can’t wait for the dinner date tonight. I’m glad I’m gonna get to spend some time with Sharon—I’m ready to open up.”

_“Are you gonna tell her about your military service tonight?”_

“I _am_ going to tell her about my military service tonight. I’m a man of my word, aren’t I?”

_“Are you nervous?” [Pepper hesitates.] “I know you were strictly against it at first...if you’re doing it because any of us pressured you into it—”_

“No, Pepper, I...” _[Bucky trails off, sighing heavily. He lifts his gaze to look at her with a wry smile.]_ “Like I said, I’m not ashamed. It’s just a part of myself I don’t like to share with anyone—not something I like to brag about or bring up out of nowhere.”

_“But you’re ready it share it with Sharon?”_

_[Bucky laughs to himself, tossing his hair out of his face with a shake of his head before lolling his head to give the camera a droll, knowing look.]_ “Yeah. I’m ready to share it with Sharon.”

* * *

**ITM: Brock Rumlow**

“Alright, Christine, which motherfucker took me out?” _[Brock glowers angrily at the camera, listening as the producer mumbles something behind the camera. His eyebrows jump high on his forehead.]_ “Really?! Wouldn’t have pegged _him_ for a good shot. I mean, honestly, did you see how badly he was _crying_ earlier today?”

 _[The producer mumbles something; whatever it is, it makes Brock snicker.]_ “I mean, if _you_ can make him cry, how the hell’s he tough enough to take proper care of Sharon? The way he swaggers around, you’d think he at least had his life together. But now, instead he’s gotta cling to Rogers—I tell ya, no self-respecting man does something to that, not unless he’s queer.”

_“Funny you should mention that...”_

* * *

**ITM: Scott Lang**

“Fuck. _Ow._ I think my body is one giant bruise.” _[Scott rubs gingerly at his arm, wincing.]_ “Is it bad if I say I’m relieved we lost and I get to go back to the hotel? Everything hurts. Everything hurts. Fuck. _Ow.”_

* * *

**ITM: Bruce Banner**

“...Is it mean of me to say I’m glad Thor wasn’t on this date?” _[Bruce winces.]_ “Not because—he’s great, I love that guy. But he’d also probably have murdered us all.”

* * *

**ITM: Thor Odinson**

“He said that?” _[Thor grins; he’s sitting in front of the generic ITM set up within their hotel.]_ “No, not at all. I shall consider it a compliment.”

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W4D3_N_MR_C32_MC1.mxf**

_[Five of the six men on the red team are lounging around on a set of couches in the middle of the paintball field they were duking battling on a few hours ago; there are lanterns set up around them and an array of flowers, candles, and alcohol on the table. A dish with the rose sits at the forefront. Clearly, they’ve exhausted most of their conversation topics.]_

“While all this has been _quite_ fun...I don’t suppose you’d mind if I took a nap?”

_[Four pairs of eyes turn simultaneously to glare at Loki, who’s stretched out on the couch lazily. There’s a pregnant pause.]_

“...Point taken.”

* * *

“Jesus _Christ,_ Steve, why the fuck aren’t you in bed?”

“I _am_ in bed,” says Steve Rogers, who is a shithead but also technically lying in their bed with the covers pulled up to his chest. Bucky takes off his jacket, wads it into a ball, and hurls it as fast as he can into Steve’s chest; Steve lifts _Return of the King_ and swats the jacket back towards him.

“It’s late as hell, you know what I mean.” Bucky catches the jacket again and begins hanging it up, stretching with a sigh. Between paintball and emotional outpouring, he’s more than ready to sink into a puddle in a relatively clean patch of carpet and sleep until he’s dead. “Seriously, you didn’t have to wait around for me.”

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you.” Steve scrambles up off the bed so that he can sit on the carpet next to Bucky who...has somehow ended up melting/kneeling on the floor, yep, that seems about right. “I just wanted to say that I, uh...I’m sorry Christine told me that shit about you without asking you first. And I don’t think you’re being disrespectful or whatever or any of the bullshit she said, not at all. I didn’t want to betray your trust, and I know you hadn’t come to me with that stuff, so it sucks that I had to hear—”

“Oh my _God,_ you’re worse than my mother. Stop stressing, seriously.” Bucky gives it up and throws himself back against the bed, sighing comfortably as he stretches his legs out so they’re grazing the cabinet against the wall. Yep, yep. This is it. He could fall asleep like this and everything today will have been a...pretty average dream, actually, the good and bad stuff kinda balances out overall. Oh, his next nap is gonna be fucking _glorious,_ he can feel it in the bone-deep exhaustion. “Honestly? I don’t mind you knowing, Steve. If it ever came up, I would’ve told you without thinking twice.”

“Really?” Steve shifts so that he’s sitting against the cabinet, facing Bucky as he props an arm up on his knee. Bucky shifts lazily so he’s gazing at Steve through his eyelashes, fighting sleep.

“For the record, I do trust you with that. I’d trust you with a lot, actually.” He’s tired. The tiredness is making him weak, he’s pretty sure, which is why he’s so loose-lipped. Across from him, Steve gives him a stupidly gratified look and nudges him with his smelly, sock-covered feet. Stupid idiot who wears _socks_ to bed. He’s great, really. “Is it fucked up if I say you’re one of my closest friends? Not just on this show or whatever—I know it’s just been a month, and it’s weird, but. It’s true.”

“Well, I’d say the same thing, if you hadn’t spoiled Parks and Rec for me.” Steve laughs, tilting his head back against the cabinet with a contented sigh. “But yeah, same here. Blame it on the fact that we’re locked up in here with literally nothing else to do or think about.”

It makes sense, maybe, that the Stockholm Syndrome of the show is putting all his relationships into overdrive; that’s kind of what they need to do to make the premise with Sharon work, after all. Still, Bucky thinks as he catches Steve’s eye with a grin, it’s not so bad. “Stop being an asshole, I’m trying to have a _moment_ with you.”

“My bad, I’ll do my best not to ruin it.” Steve’s grin softens to a slight smile. “Seriously, though. You know it kinda feels the same way on my end, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” He _does,_ funnily enough; he believes in the reciprocation from Steve with a strange and unexplainable certainty. “Thanks for doing what you did back there—hiding me from the cameras, standing up for me in general, bringing me back from the edge.” He closes his eyes, sighing blissfully; everything feels a little fuzzy, with how exhausted he is. “I really needed that.”

“Not to discount our friendship, honestly, but I would’ve done it for anyone.” Steve huffs, blowing damp hair out of his face. “This show’s full of leeches, I swear. I’m _so_ glad we have Pepper as our producer, can you even _imagine_ having Christine?”

“Oh, God. No wonder Brock and Jack are so angry all the time.” Bucky sighs, sitting up a little further and crossing his legs as he blinks himself back awake from where he’s starting to drift off. “Even _with_ Pepper, this entire show’s full of fucking landmines. I know she didn’t _mean_ to have Christine do this to me, but the thought of them talking about me and what they want me to say in some back room is so freaking high school, I swear.”

“You know, I’ve been talking to some of the other men in the house today.” Steve yawns, settling his head into one hand and blinking up at Bucky through his unfairly long lashes. “The shit she was saying today about you getting eliminated soon—that’s their _strategy._ They’re making all the front-runners as insecure and panicked as possible by threatening their position constantly, and they’re making the people who aren’t as close overly secure. That way _everyone’s_ blind-sided no matter what happens to them.”

 _That_ wakes Bucky up. He sits up, blinking back to attention as he stares openly across to where Steve’s actively dozing off in his hands and also kinda drooling onto his jeans. It’s cute, and gross, and also pretty damn innocuous. “Okay, that’s fucked up and all, but Steve, how the hell did you figure all that out?”

“Hey, I’m smart.” Steve stares up at him balefully. “I know things.”

Up until now, Bucky had been operating under the assumption that Steve was a little clueless about just how messed up the producers were, if generally well-intentioned; Steve had seemed a little _too_ starstruck over Sharon, after all. Now, though...well, maybe Bucky’s just the one being overly cautious. Steve’s quite a bit smarter than he looks. “Touché.” Bucky leans over to flick Steve in the forehead, but the man doesn’t even blink as he swats his hand away. Killjoy “No wonder there’s all this emphasis on getting us to open up, then.”

“Yeah.” There’s a bit of a lull as Bucky unbuttons the button of his jeans (he’s earned the right, dammit) and Steve continues to doze with his head propped up on his leg. Right when Bucky’s about to assume his friend’s fallen asleep and snag some quality time with a shower, Steve speaks up again, voice alert and remarkably steady. “...On the one-on-one date, she tried to make me talk about my mom.”

Bucky’s a little tired, so his first instinct is to remind Steve that he doesn’t know about his mom. Then he realizes that that’s probably the entire point, and then he’s just angry in a tired, disconnected way. Jesus, the _nerve_ of these people. “Steve, you don’t have to tell me about it just because they told you about me.”

“No, I _want_ to.” Steve opens his eyes and glances upward at Bucky without moving his head. “Ever since that night, I just feel...I don’t know, dirty? I’ve been needing to talk about her with someone since they brought it up, but it has to be because I want to and not because they _want_ me to.” He pushes himself upward, tucking his knees neatly under him and sucking in a fortifying breath before abruptly freezing up. “Unless...you’re pretty tired.”

“That’s the best _time_ for these sorts of talks, Steve, you know that.” Bucky waves his hand. “C’mon, hit me.”

“Right, right.” For a second, Bucky thinks Steve might back out, but Steve merely shifts his weight for a second before addressing a spot somewhere by Bucky’s head. “I never knew my dad, and my mom...she died kinda suddenly pretty much the moment I was old enough to live without her. I’d basically just turned eighteen, which—yeah, I mean, I was _technically_ old enough, but...”

Bucky waits, but when Steve whines and makes a helpless gesture with his hands, he steps in softly. “You weren’t ready?”

“No, I wasn’t.” Steve sighs in relief, his lips twisting upward briefly in gratitude before he resumes. “She was...I mean. I didn’t have many friends growing up. You know I was small, right?”

No, no he doesn’t. “Small?”

“Man, I forget sometimes that I haven’t had the chance to tell you much.” Steve smiles toothily, shit-eating. “I was scrawny, maybe...I wanna say 5’4”, all the way until I joined the army. Around ninety pounds soaking wet, to boot.”

Bucky looks at Steve—at the way he’s sitting, like he’s tucking himself into his own bulk. All _six feet and two hundred plus pounds_ of his bulk. “You’re fucking with me.”

“I am not.” Steve snorts, biting his lip as his eyes light up and he smiles. “I had asthma, too. Partial deafness, stomach ulcers, pretty bad scoliosis for a while when I was little...”

“You are _fucking_ with me.”

“I was _born_ with a shitty heart too, of course, but eventually that went away on its own. The rest involves a doctor I met at an army recruitment center and a shit ton of experimental treatments, but that’s another story...well, actually, it’s exactly what it sounds like—I met a doctor at an army recruitment center and got a shit ton of experimental treatments.”

Steve’s _entire life_ sounds like reality television. Or a soap opera. Maybe that explains how he’s inexplicably gotten so good at getting through this show. “What the _hell_ is wrong with you?”

“Yeah, that’s what Sam said, too. Why does everyone act like getting rid of all my random illnesses was such a bad thing?” Steve rolls his eyes, like Bucky’s overreacting to the fact that Steve apparently volunteered to be a guinea pig for what sounds like a literal mad scientist. “That’s not the point. The point is, growing up, I had maybe one good friend, a lot to prove, and an inability to keep my mouth shut that got me beat up in a lot of back alleys. My mom and I—she taught me how to fight for things worth fighting for. We ended up being really close. And when she died, it kinda—well, it really fucked me up.” He sighs, rubbing a tired hand over his face. “I didn’t really have anyone to fall back on, so I just—I got really good at compartmentalizing and burying all that shit all the way fucking down, pretending like I’d be fine and getting everything done on my own, you know? I got good at grinning and bearing it for the sake of making sure my life didn’t crash and burn.”

Bucky doesn’t know—he’s had his parents and his sister by his side for as long as he can remember, and he’s always had a way of making himself likable. He has problems with creating meaningful emotional attachment, sure, but the idea of having _no one—_ God, he can’t imagine it at all. “Fuck, Steve. I wish—well. I wish someone could’ve been there for you.” He remembers suddenly that they’d been in pretty much the same area of Brooklyn. “I wish _I_ could’ve been there for you.”

“I’m sure I would’ve appreciated it, even if you _are_ the worst.” Steve smiles thinly, stretching back out and nudging Bucky with his foot. “And I’m—not entirely better, obviously. My coping mechanisms are a pretty big part of who I am now. But I have a therapist, and I’d like to think I’m getting better at opening up about stuff.” He takes a shaky breath, spreading his arms. “Case in point, this right now. The last time I talked about my mom was—well, I was kind of having a stress breakdown in front of Nat and Sam. And the time before that was my therapist.”

Bucky doesn’t entirely know _what_ to say to that, because he suspects if he thinks about it too much he’ll come out with something dumb like ‘I’m going to hug you now’ or incoherent sobbing. Instead, he settles for putting his hand briefly on Steve’s ankle and hoping he gets the message via osmosis or whatever before focusing on the part of himself he understands—the _anger._ “And they tried to get you to talk about it on your _first date_ with Sharon?”

“Yeah.” Steve shrugs one shoulder, closing his eyes again and leaning back; he looks exhausted, if not relieved about getting it all out. “I mean, I wrote it down on my paperwork—it’s easier, you know, if you just put it down somewhere without thinking about where it’s going. I kinda forgot, honestly.”

“That’s not—” Bucky opens and closes his mouth for a hot minute. “That’s not _okay,_ Steve. They shouldn’t be trying to emotionally fucking traumatize us, for God’s sake. This is your _life_ we’re talking about here.”

“I mean, didn’t I kind of sign up for it, agreeing to be on television?”

“Wow, Steve, I thought you couldn’t top your freaking jorts-denim thing, but _that._ That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you fucking say.” Bucky pinches Steve viciously in the calf, making him yelp and jump back up. “Of course you didn’t fucking sign up for this! If that level of disregard to your personal privacy wasn’t enough—this isn’t a plot point, it’s your freaking _mother—”_

“You don’t have to get this riled up for me, Buck.” Steve sounds amused, voice pitched low and warm.

“Fucking _yes I do,_ shut the fuck up if you don’t know what you’re talking about.” Bucky snorts, pointing a finger at Steve; Steve smiles knowingly and mimes zipping his lips. “Besides, it’s not like you weren’t getting this riled up for me earlier with Christine.”

Steve raises an eyebrow, tilting his head and sighing theatrically.

“You may speak.”

“I was gonna say that I did, so you’re right.” Damn straight. “Anyway, let’s talk about something else. Frankly speaking, they’re not worth our time.”

He’s right, as usual. Besides, if they try this shit again—if they _dare_ try this shit again, after how badly Steve chewed Christine out today—Bucky can just take pleasure in going off on them right in front of everyone. He prides himself, really, on his lack of self-control. “Fair point. For instance, I’d _much_ rather hear about what you were mentioning earlier. Something about getting beaten up in back alleys?”

“Oh my God.” Steve rolls his neck, sighing. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“Not on your life, buddy.”

“Fine. Buckle in, then, because it’s kind of a long story.” Steve grunts as he readjusts his position, this time propping his feet up directly in Bucky’s lap. Bucky lets him have it, if only because Steve’s clearly had a pretty rough day. “So, I guess it kinda starts when I was ten or so...”

* * *

**1:12 AM**

“You dirty fucking _liar.”_

“Cross my heart and swear it, Buck. Anyway, there I am, holding up this trash can lid like a goddamn shield—”

“Shut your _mouth.”_

“…”

“Okay, fine, keep fucking talking. You _liar.”_

“He punches me clean through the lid, tells me to stay down—”

“Please. Steve. I’m begging you. _Tell me you stayed down.”_

“I stayed down.”

“…”

“I did not stay down.”

“You _fucking idiot!”_

“Anyway, I put my fists back up, say something about how I can do this all day.”

“You need to stop. You need to stop _now.”_

“This happened when I was in high school, Bucky.”

_“Cease and desist.”_

“...So anyway—pfft. So anyway, I keep getting up, and he keeps knocking me back down, but I get in a few hits—”

“If this ends with you out cold, Steve, I’m handcuffing us together so you can’t leave my sight while you’re here.”

“I’m big _now!”_

“That is _not the point!_ Finish the damn story!”

“Well geez, Buck, I’m not sure I wanna— _ow!_ That’s— _dammit!_ Stop! Why are your fingernails so long?!”

“So I can paint ‘em, obviously. Don’t distract me.”

“Fine, fine! In the end this keeps going until he gets bored and leaves.”

“You let him beat you up until he ran _away?!”_

“But he wasn’t bothering the girl anymore, so it worked out just the way I—”

“You know what? I take it back, I can totally see it; it sounds _exactly_ like you. Now gimme that tie, I’m gonna tie your fucking wrist to mine—”

“You’ve made your point, I won’t do it again.”

“Did I stutter? I’m _tying us together—_ I am serious, Steven Grant Rogers, stop laughing! I know how to tie knots! Give me the— _argh—”_

* * *

**1:48 AM**

“So my parents walk into the apartment and see us right there in the living room, buck naked in a freaking eight foot inflatable kiddie pool—”

“You saved your allowance for three months.”

“Yeah, well, they should’ve gotten us that pool.”

“You lived in an _apartment building in New York!”_

“The way it ended up, they had two options—buying it for us or waiting until Rebecca and I snapped and bought it ourselves.”

“These are terrible options. Yes, hi, operator, I would like to return _both of these options immediately.”_

“Sorry, no refunds. Where was I? Yes, so. For a while there we tried to fill it by carting cups of water back and forth from the sink, but eventually Rebecca found the two-liter—”

“Where the _hell was your babysitter?!”_

“We didn’t have one!”

“You _what?!”_

“A ten year old can watch a four year old, don’t get your panties twisted. Anyway, so I pop down to the gas station to buy some more soda to put in the kiddie pool—”

“So who was watching Rebecca?!”

“...Alright, so maybe the ten year old _wasn’t_ watching the four year old. I was back in five minutes tops, it was fine.”

 _“Was_ it?”

“I don’t know, Steve, fine is subjective. Was it _fine_ when you were fighting bullies when _you_ were ten?”

“...Alright. You’ve made your point.”

“Anyway, I’m old enough that I know I’m gonna get in a shit-ton of trouble, but Rebecca’s offering to pay me—what is the technical term? A truly alarming amount of money. And I’m angry that they made me clean up her vomit the week before—”

“So you made a _bigger_ mess to clean up later?!”

“I never said I was _smart,_ Steve, it seemed like a good idea at the time. As I was _saying,_ I’m in the gas station juggling two-liters when I see the milkshake machine.”

“Wait, is this—was this the gas station by the park with the spaceship-themed swings?”

“Fuck, you know it?”

“I _loved_ that park. I loved those milkshakes, too...Wait. Did you fill the pool with the—”

“Banana milkshakes? Why yes, I did indeed.”

“...You’re forgiven. A pool of those milkshakes, Jesus. It would’ve been worth it.”

“Yeah? Yeah?”

“Stop smiling like that.”

“Aw...”

* * *

**2:31 AM**

“One thing I’m confused by.”

“Shoot.”

“How the hell did that ninety pound kid from Brooklyn end up here?”

“Well, this might— _might_ —sound a little familiar to you, but I applied for a show called—”

“Don’t get smart with me, I’m serious. For starters, why the army?”

“Honestly? For a while after the treatments and stuff, the army was kinda my comfort zone. The rules and shit—I mean, it was regularity, you know? After that initial panic after my mom and the big transition to a new body, it was kind of a relief to know with total certainty where to go and what to do.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah. I’d ask you why you joined, but...”

“Kinda the same thing. I had no idea what I was gonna do after high school, and my dad had been in the army, so it seemed like a safe bet. ‘Safe’ being the operative word, obviously, because I wasn’t exactly planning on blowing up my left arm—”

“Wait, _what?!”_

“Oh, wait, didn’t I—damn, I forgot, you weren’t there for that part. I got discharged because of injury sustained in the field—my arm...well, whatever. There’s a reason I ask you to help me with my hair.”

“...What.”

“I can do it myself, it just takes a lot longer. I have—well, limited range with my left arm. Physical therapy helped; I can do general movements, so it doesn’t really _show_ too much, but reaching behind my head’s a struggle and my fingers kinda shake really badly and I can’t feel anything. At all. It’d look pretty damn ugly, too, if it weren’t quite a few years off and a shit-ton of skin grafts.”

“... _Jesus.”_

“But hey, now you know how I won Egyptian Ratscrew.”

“...Oh my God.”

“Yeah—pfft. They can slap that sucker as hard as they want. I ain’t gonna feel a thing.”

“...You...You’re something else.”

“Mm, say it again, baby.”

“I _hate_ you.”

“Aw, am I that bad?”

“Yes. But everyone else is worse. Jesus, I can’t believe they tried to force you to talk about it.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t believe they haven’t forced you to talk about _yours._ The experimental stuff? Being small? That’s the sort of shit they’d be eating up, isn’t it?”

“Not yet, apparently. Actually, come to think of it, I’m not sure I ever _told_ them about it. The mom thing was kinda unavoidable when they asked about family, but this might not have been relevant.”

“Damn, really?”

“It’s not like it changed much, you know?”

“...You’re kidding.”

“You know what I mean, asshole. In the end, it’s not like being bigger changed me, is what I mean.”

* * *

**3:40 AM**

“Stop fucking with me.”

“Well, I tried to warn you, Steve, but if you won’t listen to me I can’t save you.”

“Oh my God.”

“How do you explain why I have perfect teeth, even though I never flossed or wore braces?”

“Okay, first off, you’re gonna start flossing tonight.”

“Bullshit.”

“Don’t make me floss you, you big baby. I’ll do it. Secondly, I don’t _know_ how you have perfect teeth, but I _do_ know that vampires aren’t fucking real and you are _not a vampire just because you are from Romania!”_

“Alright, fine. I’m not a vampire.”

“Thank you.”

“My grandma is, though. I’m serious, everyone from the motherland—”

“Oh, fuck right off!”

“—the crucifixes are shit, but the garlic’s real, and you should try to cross running water whenever possible—”

“I regret ever asking about Romania.”

“Honestly? It’s a pretty nice place. Kinda like a time warp, but it all looks like something out of a storybook, you know?”

“I’d love to see it someday.”

“Well, if you ever go, let me know and I’ll tell you what to see.”

“I’ll do you one better—if I ever go, we’ll make a trip of it, how about.”

“...Huh. Yeah, why not? You could take pictures—”

“Drawing, I prefer drawing.”

“—you could draw the scenery. My pretty face, obviously. The mountains are really nice. And the architecture, like I said, the streets are beautiful—’quaint’ and ‘peaceful’ are words that come to mind.”

“Those words don’t seem much in your wheelhouse. Then again, the travelling library didn’t either.”

“Ah, I’m a man of many layers.”

“So I’ve noticed. And the teeth?”

“...I’ve got an extra canine on the bottom row. A baby tooth with no adult tooth underneath, so it never fell out. Without the adult tooth, the rest of my teeth didn’t have to shift, so no braces necessary.”

“I _knew_ it.”

“But how’d I _get_ the extra canine, Steve? All the better to bite you with—”

“For God’s sake, Bucky, you’re not a vampire!”

* * *

**4:11 AM**

“I’m just saying, the way your childhood sounds, it seems like you’d have ended up as some sort of political activist, changing the world for the better or something.”

“Honestly? I considered it—I always liked drawing and doodling, sure, but I didn’t think it’d become my full-time job.”

“So what changed?”

“...There’s this one set of pictures my mom has of her and my dad.”

“Thought you said you didn’t know your dad?”

“He died before I was born.”

“Shit, Steve, I’m sorry.”

“Nah, it’s fine. Like I said, never really knew him. Anyway, there’s one set of pictures she’s got, the first shot I saw of him after I got my colorblindness corrected—and it’s pictures they took here, actually, at the Grand Canyon.”

“...Huh.”

“There’s shots of the two of them, obviously, but there’s an entire set they took from the platform of the Canyon—Jesus, Bucky, the way the sun lights up the place. And he wasn’t in the shot, but I _felt_ —I don’t know, something. The moment I saw that, I knew.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. That feeling was—well, I’m not religious, but it was like looking on the face of God or something. Ever since, I’ve wanted to feel that again—help other people feel it. Something.”

“...I want to feel it.”

“So do I. Want you to feel it, I mean—and want to feel it myself, I guess. I’ve wanted to go see the Canyon in person for what feels like my entire life—mom kept saying we’d go, but we had a tough time as it was and it just never happened. Now we’re here, a few miles away, and I still won’t get to see it. If I did—I don’t know. Maybe I’m overhyping it. I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“...”

“Want me to pack a go bag while you smash the window? We’re big enough, we probably won’t get murdered if we hitchhike over.”

“I’ll think about it.”

* * *

**4:17 AM**

“For me, it was science and mechanical engineering.”

“Did you go to college for it?”

“For a little while, sure. But I was kinda ass at it—the pre-reqs and stuff, I mean. All the unrelated cerebral math courses we had to take before we could even think about actually working with anything—I wanted to _make_ something, you know? Looking at all the new technologies and stuff was great, but I wanted to do things. In the end, I dropped and joined the army. When I came back, I went through a certificate program instead.”

“And then?”

“Apprenticed for a while, worked for a big chain, then left and started my own shop.”

“Howlie’s Garage. Pfft.”

“Laugh all you want. I’ve got a good crew, a respectable business, and a sweet ride. Life’s good.”

“But the _name._ Hang on, you drive a car in New York?”

“A motorcycle. Sometimes. Subway’s useful.”

“Oh, thank _God.”_

“The subway?”

“The motorcycle. I’ve got one of my own.”

“Huh, really? Whatcha got?”

“A Harley.”

“Hm, not bad. I’ve got one of the older Indian Scouts, myself—also been looking at a Ducati Monster.”

“Damn, fancy.”

“Damn straight, I am. Have you _seen_ me?”

“Noted. I’ll swing by your shop if I ever need upkeep—is it just bikes, or do you do cars too?”

“Yeah, both. I prefer the bikes, though. Dum-Dum probably knows the cars better than I do.”

“Dum-Dum?”

“...Timothy Dugan. He called me Jimmy once, so I paid him back in kind.”

“Jimmy is a perfectly normal guess for your name.”

“You’ll be Asswipe in this house if you keep this line of questioning up.”

“...So, who else is there?”

“Well, I’ll get this out of the way right now—we’re the Howling Commandos.”

“...”

“You can laugh.”

“...I’m not sure this is a laughing matter. Are you okay?”

“Fuck you.”

“Alright, seriously. Who else is there?”

“Morita and Monty.”

“Sure. What are their real names?”

“James.”

“Which one? Wait.”

“Yeah. James.”

“Oh, God.”

“So for our own sanity: Morita, Monty, Bucky. There’s Dernier—”

“Let me guess, James?”

“Jacques. He’s French, but let’s be honest, it might as well be.”

“Are you hiring them this way on purpose?!”

“Well, Gabe kinda breaks the pattern...”

“Please tell me you have more than _one_ friend that is not named James.”

“Just one more. His name’s Clint; I’ve known him since college days.”

“That’s nice.”

“Actually, he’s the one who submitted my name for this show, so we might not be friends anymore.”

“Sure.”

“If I fired Gabe, it’d all be James...I’d have to unfriend you, of course, but that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to—”

_“Bucky.”_

* * *

**5:27 AM**

“Steve. _Steve._ When I get eliminated—”

 _“—if_ you get eliminated. You could win.”

“Haha, very funny. When I get eliminated, you _have_ to introduce me to them. I love them.”

“...You have never _met_ them.”

“I don’t care. I love them already. I would let Natasha step on me and take Sam home to my parents. I would date the shit out of them.”

“Both of them?”

 _“At the same time._ Why haven’t _you_ dated the shit out of them?”

“Geez, Bucky, I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I’m kind of a romance disaster. A relationship disaster, really. That’s why I need them to keep me in line. I love them too much to date them—and also, Sam’s a dude. I’m straight.”

“Y’know, you keep talking about your awful dating history, but whatever you’re doing with Sharon, you’re blowing the rest of us out of the water.”

“Honestly? I’m not sure how it’s happening either.”

“Well, you know what they say—every guy has three hot streaks with the ladies in his life.”

“I thought it was that everyone has three great _loves_ in their life.”

“First off, wow. Second off, that sounds like me. Third off, that sounds like you. Fourth off, totally different things, Steve.”

“Well, I dated Carol Danvers in high school—not sure how the hell _that_ happened. So I guess that makes this right here my second?”

“Hot streak or love?”

“I don’t know, both?”

“And who the hell’s Carol Danvers? No, wait, never mind. The way you said it tells me everything I need to know.”

“She could kill me and I would thank her for it.”

“I gathered.”

“You had any?”

“Steve, honey, my life is one long hot streak.”

“Yeah, I meant my thing. The love thing.”

“Oh...Um. Honestly? It’s hard to say. I tend—well. There’s a reason my friends are either people at my place of employment and ‘that one guy I’ve known since college’. I really couldn’t tell you if I’ve ever been—well, might as well get used to saying it—in love.”

“I’m both impressed and horrified.”

“Yeah, you would be.”

* * *

**6:00 AM**

“I’ve been thinking about—flowers. For my mom. I don’t know, every time I consider it, I chicken out. It’s the idea of something permanent...I mean, who knows what I’ll regret when I’m older?”

“...I mean, sure, I guess so. I don’t know, I always figured that even if I did end up regretting it, if it’s the sort of thing that I wanted badly enough at the time that it meant the world to me, it’d still be worth it as a reminder of who I used to be or something.”

“Deep.”

 _“Or something,_ Steve, I’m not trying to be deep. I’m tired.”

“Still deep.”

“Shut up. It’s not deep. It’s just your tired brain that thinks it’s deep.”

“What is yours again?”

“Red star right on top of my left arm.”

“Well, _that’s_ a cop-out.”

“What?”

“If you don’t feel pain in your left arm—”

“Oh. Ha, I guess so.”

“You got it with your unit?”

“Yeah, but—well, it was a while after I’d already gotten out. The doctor didn’t like it—understandable, considering how the arm’s shot to hell already—but after I’d waited long enough there was less of a chance it’d fuck shit up.”

“...And it—”

“Yeah, placement there because of my injury. It means a lot to me, you know—not just what happened to me, but how I dealt with it after. When I was _in_ the army, I honestly wasn’t thinking much about the things I was gonna do when I got back, beyond eating a cheeseburger and sleeping in a proper bed; after I got out, for a while I didn’t want to do anything at all.”

“...God, Bucky.”

“Hey, I dug myself out, didn’t I?”

“Still. You’re amazing.”

“Well, I _do_ like hearing that. How about you, then? Were you always gonna be an artist after you got out and got your vision corrected?”

“Not at first, no. Being alone there with nothing else to do, it really made me think about what was important. And—well. I spent enough empty time doodling to get my mind off things that in the end, I figured I’d be just fine doing it for the rest of my life anyways.”

“Y’know, isolated like this with no communication with the outside world, people telling us what to do, in the weeds with our fellow comrades-in-arms...”

“This is still a heck of a lot better.”

“Barely.”

_“Better.”_

“Would we say so?”

“Bucky, you got _grievously injured.”_

“And yet.”

“Stop it, you jerk.”

“Ugh, fine.”

* * *

**7:19 AM**

“You know what I just realized?”

“Do I _want_ to know?”

“Shut up, Steve, I’m experiencing an epiphany here. Do you know what I just realized?”

“...Gee golly, Buck, I have no earthly clue.”

“We’re both terrible at this—opening ourselves up to emotional vulnerability and attachments or whatever, right? Different masks, sure, but...yeah.”

“Sure.”

“Well...I mean, look at us. We’re here. I’ve got friends here.”

“Yeah.”

“This entire place is bullshit and the crew is bullshit and everything is bullshit, but. Forcing us to open up and purposely making us all volatile and shit. It’s so that we can get easily emotional for the sake of drama and fast bonding with Sharon—”

“Listen, you gotta make a point or I’m in serious danger of passing out.”

“—but _also,_ as a side effect, we’re fast bonding with each _other.”_

“...Huh.”

“I’ve got friends here. _Good_ friends. Friends I would trust with my _shit,_ y’know?”

“Yeah, yeah, I see what you mean.”

“Not all of it, maybe but—okay. I’d trust Scott with my shit. I’d trust Thor with my shit. Fuck, I’d even trust _Wade_ with my shit. And you. I’ve got you, right?”

“Yeah, Bucky.”

“You’re not just saying that to get me off your back, are you?”

“Shit, do you even have to ask? Of course you’ve got me.”

* * *

**7:53 AM**

“So what’re you gonna do when you get out?”

“Didn’t we establish that this wasn’t anything like the army?”

“We established that it was _better_ than the army. The similarities are still there.”

“I’d like to think of this as more of a summer camp.”

“You _would._ There’s certainly enough drama.”

“Jesus.”

“Love is a battlefield, Steve.”

_“Bucky.”_

“Jesus first, Bucky second—ha, I like it. Love is war, soldier.”

“Shut up.”

“I _did_ shoot you today.”

“With a paintball gun!”

“All is fair in—”

“I will punch you in the throat.”

“Damn, Rogers, you’re stepping up your game!”

“I’m _tired,_ of course my filter’s down. This is your fault. What time is it?”

“Fuck if I know. Hey, if you’re issuing death threats, love is _officially_ war and I will claim victory.”

“Shut _up._ ”

“Stop lying on the floor, I can’t hear you if you’re talking into the carpet. Roll over, at the very least. Seriously, what are you gonna do when you get out of here?”

“...I don’t know. I’ve already taken so much time off work—maybe I’ll travel or something.”

“Mm, not a bad plan.”

“You know what? I should loop back over here, see the Grand Canyon for real. I keep putting it off even now—maybe I’m scared I’ll get here and it’ll just be some giant crack in the ground I traveled halfway across the country to see for nothing. But now that I’m here...yeah, I think I could give it a shot. What about you?”

“...Geez, it _is_ the army. I haven’t thought about anything past a proper New York slice and the comforts of Netflix.”

“You should think about it more.”

“Hm. Tell you what—if we really don’t get any more dates out of this week, why don’t we do it for real?”

“What?”

“Let’s make a roadtrip of it when we get back to Brooklyn. You and me, we’ll go see the Grand Canyon ourselves. I’m my own boss too, I can afford to take a little more time off.”

“...Yeah?”

“I used to take one-day roadtrips with Clint all the time. I’m well versed in the art. ‘Sides, like I said, I’ve got nothing else planned.”

“You _did_ say you’d show me around Romania.”

“Why, Steve, are you suggesting we make a worldwide tour of it? Because I am _all for_ taking another month and seeing all the places we wanna see—for _real,_ not out the window of the hotel we’re trapped in. I’m always thinking I should travel more. It’s one of the reasons I did the damn show in the first place.”

“...That sounds nice.”

“Scratch a few things off our bucket lists. Go see the Maldives before they sink underwater or whatever. Whaddya say?”

“I say...yeah, why not?”

“There are worse people to travel the world with, Steve, trust me.”

“None come to mind right now.”

“Brock Rumlow.”

“One comes to mind right now.”

“Christine Everhart.”

“Two come to mind right now.”

“Donald and Melania Tr—”

“Alright, you’ve made your point!”

* * *

By the time Bucky realizes that the sun’s actually been up for a while, Steve’s lying face-down on the floor; Bucky would assume he were asleep if not for the fact that he keeps rubbing his face against the carpet uncomfortably and grumbling sleepily at Bucky to get off him.

Right. Also, Bucky’s just leaning against Steve and his giant shoulders at this point. At least they’re a heck of a lot more comfortable than the carpet.

“Steve. Do something for me.” Bucky seriously contemplates doing it himself when Steve responds with a noncommittal grunt, but that would involve doing things like _getting up_ and _moving_ and Bucky has standards. “Steve, go check what time it is.”

“I’ll do it if you get _off my back, literally,”_ Steve shoots back.

“You were the one who told me to stop sitting on your legs.”

“They were falling asleep. Like I am going to fall asleep, if you don’t let me get up and check the fucking time. You know we have a clock next to my bedside _in this room,_ right?”

...No. “Yes.” In Bucky’s defense, it’s not like he has much of a reason to explore Steve’s things on his side of the bedroom when he already knows that Steve’s wardrobe consists of ugly with a side of confused. He rolls off of Steve, onto the infinitely stupid and uncomfortable carpet. He’s pretty sure he has carpet burn on his thighs from the night anyway. “Will you check the time now?”

Steve doesn’t move for a second. “...Fuck. Wake me up somehow.”

Well then. Bucky pinches him hard in the back.

“Ow! I said _wake,_ not _seriously maim!”_

“Sorry, must’ve mixed it up in my tired brain.” Bucky thumps his head back against the carpet, staring stupidly at the white-washed ceiling and the long, slanted shadows on it. “Dude, do you realize we’ve been up for more than twenty-four hours, probably? And in that time we’ve emotionally broken down once—”

 _“You’ve_ emotionally broken down once.”

“And _you’ve_ gotten shot once.”

“Fuck. It’s late.” Steve yawns, padding back over to Bucky; he plops down without warning right next to him and, in clear retaliation for the various positions of casual contact Bucky’s been subjecting Steve to over the course of the night, throws his feet right over Bucky’s stomach so all the air leaves him in a sudden whoosh. Fucker. “Early enough that people are probably still asleep, but filming’s gonna start soon.”

“Mm.” Bucky is never getting up off the carpet. It’s uncomfortable, but it’s his home now. “Might as well get up, I guess.”

“Dibs on the bathroom, I gotta piss.”

“Hey, _fuck_ you, I haven’t even showered since paintball.”

“Yeah, well, you should’ve thought of that before I sat on you.”

Bucky turns his head to look at Steve, who’s rubbing both his hands over his face as he mutters something about flossing, eyes half-lidded from exhaustion as he glances around the room. Maybe it’s the bubble they’re in or some sort of temporary lapse in judgement—it’s been a _month,_ Bucky, get a hold of yourself—but with the sun casting everything in the room in a bright, ethereal glow, Steve included, Bucky can’t help but think about Steve’s comment on those pictures of the sun on the Grand Canyon.

He thinks he’s feeling it—that feeling Steve was talking about. Not like looking into the face of God or anything, he’s not _that_ dramatic. But like he’s stuck in one perfect moment, exhausted and sweaty with paint streaked on his forehead, getting slowly crushed to death by Steve and his stupid legs on his chest.

He thinks, after tonight, that Steve might be one of his best friends.

“Have your precious bathroom, you heathen.” Bucky groans, giving Steve’s kneecap a half-hearted shove. “I’ll set up the coffee machine while you’re in there, Rogers, but I’m taking my fucking shower the moment you finish pissing. You can take your stupid morning shower after _I’ve_ taken the shower I should’ve taken last night.”

“Yeah, like you’re not gonna make me comb your hair after you’re done or anything.” Steve sighs, turning to look at Bucky with a tired smile as he rests his hand on his chin. It’s not funny or anything, but what the hell—life’s good, and Bucky’s tired enough to find everything more than a little amusing. He laughs.

“Fine, have it your way. But don’t take too long flossing in the mirror afterwards, and leave a toothbrush for me out on the counter. And I get the bathrobe this time, y’hear?”

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W4D4_MR_C01_QS.mxf**

_[The camera blinks to life on a haphazard shot of the main room of the penthouse; the sun’s still low in the sky. Wanda goes from mounted camera to mounted camera, checking the settings on each; otherwise, the house is completely still and silent.]_

“Looking good. Should we start setting up the space ITMs?”

“Let’s see about clearing an area for the catered breakfast first.” _[Wanda steps away; when she speaks again, she’s calling from another area in the penthouse.]_ “Is someone up? The coffee machine’s running.”

_[Pietro starts to say something, but cuts himself off abruptly; somewhere in the distance, the camera can pick up the low hum of chatter.]_

“Hang on a second.”

_[The shot shifts as Pietro leaves to investigate the noise, opening a nearby door and wandering down a few hallways. As he turns a corner, an open door comes into view; the lights are on in a nearby bathroom. No one’s got microphones attached, but the noise carries loudly enough that the camera picks it up.]_

“I’m just saying, Steve—you think the bathrobe back at the mansion was tough? Hotel bathrobes have been through _hell.”_

_[Bucky’s wearing said hotel bathrobe, his hair falling in damp waves to his shoulders. Steve stands behind him, shirtless in a pair of low-rise jeans; he’s laughing fondly as he combs through Bucky’s hair. Both are blinking a little dumbly. Bucky's swaying a little on the spot, even as he smiles.]_

“I’m think I’m tragically uninformed about this. You’ll have to enlighten me.”

“This hotel bathrobe was born into darkness. He was created for a world of cruelty—Steve, even as a wee thread, he knew of the horrors he would one day have to face.”

_[Bucky takes a sip from the cup of coffee he has cupped in both hands; another cup, presumably Steve’s, lies a little distance away on the counter.]_

“He dreams of a golden age when he will have to fight no longer, when he can ascend to bathrobe heaven—when politicians and businessmen will no longer stain his soul bloody with the spoils of their debauchery, when he can finally be restored to his former glory.”

“The washing machine?”

“The washing machine is a cruel illusion, you poor ignorant fool. This bathrobe doesn’t know it, but there’s only one fate for him: the cold embrace of the garbage chute.” _[Bucky sighs morosely, setting aside his cup and passing Steve’s into the man’s outstretched hand.]_ “The circle of life. And so our seasons turn.”

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W4D4_MR_C11_QS.mxf**

_[A few of the men are gathered in U-formation; evidently, it’s another Man Chat. Thor’s the first one to speak, clearing his throat apologetically.]_

“If I may...what happened during the group date last night? It seems like something important occurred.”

_[No one says a word. Finally, Cameron coughs.]_

“Well, something happened with Bucky, but I think he should tell you about it…uh, Bucky?”

 _[Bucky’s head snaps up from where he’s got it propped up in his hand, curled up tightly in a nearby chair.]_ “Hm?”

“Yesterday?”

“What about yesterday?” _[Bucky blinks, confused and disoriented.]_

“The group date.”

“The—oh. Right.” _[Bucky shakes his head a few times, smacking his mouth.]_ “Um...it was fine.”

“But you had that incident in the forest.”

“What?”

“Are you okay, Bucky? You look like you’re about to faint.” _[Thor looks troubled, turning to the other men.]_ “Steve, did anything happen last night to—Steve?”

_[Steve tips over onto Thor’s shoulder, fast asleep. On the other side of the room, Bucky puts his head down on the armrest of his chair and groans.]_

* * *

**ITM: James “Bucky Barnes”**

_“How did things go yesterday, Bucky?”_

“The date was amazing.” _[Bucky lifts his head from his hands, blinking a little blearily as he smiles a little more lazily than usual.]_ “I’m glad I was able to tell Sharon about my time in the army, and hearing about hers made me feel like I got to understand her that much more. It was great to connect and reflect on it—having that shared life experience really brought us a lot closer.”

_“You were so worried about being able to open up. Do you think you managed that last night?”_

_[Bucky opens his mouth, takes a deep breath, and closes it again as he mulls it over. In the end, he settles for a wide grin; despite being clearly exhausted, his excitement seems genuine.]_

“I feel like I opened up last night in a really meaningful away. The talk I had...I feel like I got the chance to be honest and connect with someone in a meaningful way, y’know? It’s the first time in a long time that I’ve felt this good. We learned a lot about each other, and I’m a lot more optimistic and comfortable about what I’m doing here. It almost makes me happy that things ended up this way—although please, Pepper, no more pressure like that.”

_“Of course not.” [Pepper sounds positively delighted.] “I’m glad you feel that way, Bucky. Do you think you can see yourself falling for Sharon?”_

_[For a brief second, Bucky’s eyebrows jump on his forehead; he smoothes it over quickly, however, with a closely guarded look.]_ “...I guess…?”

_“You know how it is. Have some confidence in your answer—and say it in a complete sentence.”_

“...Alright.” _[Bucky schools his expression accordingly, but he’s not quite as animated when he starts again.]_ “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but...I could really see myself falling in love with Sharon at the end of this crazy journey.”

* * *

Steve’s a wonderful human being. Steve’s one of the most selfless, genuine people Bucky’s ever met. Steve is a ray of sunshine in this, the most desolate and god-awful place on Earth.

Steve will _not stop humming._

“I am trying to _read,”_ Bucky finally snaps, somewhere between fragmented lines from that goddamn Andy Grammer Cotton-Eyed Joe song that they still don’t know the title to. “I _just_ got American Gods back from Thor—”

“Did he like it?”

“Of _course_ he did, he’s a man named Thor reading American Gods.” Bucky looks around him, but there’s nothing on the bed he can throw at Steve other than the book in his hands. Steve, for his part, doesn’t bother looking up from where he’s sketching something on the desk near the window. “More to the point, _I_ like this book, and I’m trying to relive it here.”

“I’m not stopping you.” Steve taps his pencil against his bottom lip. “Now, quiet. I’m almost done.”

 _Quiet,_ he says. It’s infuriating because Bucky can _be_ quiet. _Steve_ is the one who can’t be quiet, as proven by the fact that he’s _still humming_ that thrice-damned song even while Bucky tries to get back to his book.

“Just for that, I’m gonna start shouting this book at the top of my lungs.” Bucky scowls, flipping the page open again forcefully and shaking it theatrically out. Two can play at that game. “I can go longer than you, I promise. I’ve been told I have excellent lung capacity.”

“Do I want to know who told you that?”

“No.” Bucky tells him anyway. “Sexual partners.”

“Of course.” To his credit, Steve doesn’t even slow his pencil, which is probably a sign of how badly Bucky’s corrupted him more than anything else. “Actually, you know what? Why don’t you read it out loud?”

“...Are you for real?”

“Yeah, I haven’t read American Gods in a while. Go for it.”

“...Well, I _do_ like the sound of my own voice.” Bucky clears his throat for good measure. “‘The boundaries of our country, sir? Why, sir, on the north we are bounded by...’”

When Bucky glances back at Steve on a page turn, he’s smiling down at his paper as he scribbles happily in the margins. Mercifully, Bucky doesn’t have to hear that hell-song again for the rest of the afternoon.

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W4D6_HW1_C02_MC3.mxf**

_[For a second, Pietro’s face hovers in front of the mounted camera in the hallway as he squints at the lens. After a further second of consideration, he takes it down; as the shot wiggles back and forth, Wanda can be heard speaking into the radio attached to her shoulder.]_

“Yeah, we’re taking down the last of the cameras in the hotel room now. After we pack this one up, we’ll just do one last walkthrough before putting it in with the luggage and meeting you in time for the rose ceremony.”

_[The sound of muffled static crackles over the radio. Pietro pauses, then hoists the camera back up onto his shoulder.]_

“What are you doing?”

“I wanna check on everyone one last time.”

“...And the camera?”

“Why not? We can always use it for the blooper reel.”

_[Wanda sighs and shrugs, jerking her head toward the open door at the end of the hallway. The two creep closer as the distinct voices of Steve, Bucky, and Thor get louder and louder.]_

“—over the center again, like so.”

“Okay, I think I’ve got it.”

“I can _feel_ the general direction you’re tugging my hair in, I _know_ you don’t got it. Just give it to Thor—”

“I’m gonna figure this out.”

“No, Steve, no you _aren’t.”_

“Hey, I’m doing you a favor here. Why’d you grow your hair out so long, anyway?”

“Because I look sexy as hell? My only regret is that I can’t do a Legolas braid like Thor, but that’s gonna change someday soon, mark my words.”

“Didn’t you give me explicit permission to incapacitate you and take you to Supercuts not one week ago?”

“...No.”

“Huh. Two weeks ago?”

“...Shut up.”

_[Through the doorway, the camera has a clear view of Thor and Steve sitting on the bed. All three men are dressed to the nines. Thor has the rose from his one-on-one pinned to the lapel of his checked grey suit, brow furrowed in concentration as he braids his own hair over his shoulder. Steve has on a suit of some sort of dark suede material, complete with a waistcoat and a blue tie; his tongue is between his teeth as his hands clumsily manipulate Bucky’s hair. Bucky, who’s sitting on the floor in front of Steve, fidgets nervously as he tugs on the sleeves of his velvet dark green suit jacket.]_

“Alright, let me start over.” _[Steve lets go of Bucky’s hair briefly, letting the dark strands fall back over the nape of Bucky’s neck and uncurl from the shoddy braid.]_ “So, sectioning off the hair on this part of the head with the comb...then I start by putting the side over the middle...”

“Like that, yes.” _[Thor nods, bending over Bucky’s head and inspecting Steve’s work before returning back to his own braid.]_

“And I keep gathering hair as I go?”

“Might wanna pull a little tighter.” _[Bucky squawks suddenly, head jolting back.]_ “Okay, no, a _little._ Steve, what the hell are you doing?”

“Hang on, gimme a second to just...”

“Thor, what the _hell_ is he doing?”

 _[Thor looks over.]_ “Steve, that isn’t the braid we discussed—”

“I’m an artist, I’m improvising—”

“You’re improvising? On my head? Before it goes on _national television?!”_

“I’m serious, I think this could work! If I do this all the way down, it should look pretty cool—what do I call this? What is this called, Thor?”

“That, my friend, is called one giant knot.” _[Thor sighs, reaching behind him and handing Steve Bucky’s paddle brush and comb.]_ “Again.”

_[Steve sighs, gently combing the knot out of Bucky’s hair. Pietro snickers and turns to leave, turning off the camera as Steve runs his fingers through Bucky’s hair and starts muttering the pattern to himself once more.]_

* * *

“Oh, also—I love what you’ve done with your hair today.”

“Thanks, I love it too.”

Sharon laughs alongside Bucky, rubbing the back of her neck and sweeping her own hair over one shoulder subconsciously. The two of them are taking a turn around the gardens in the courtyard of the penthouse, flanked by cameras; the rose ceremony’s in full swing, complete with the chatter of all the other men in the background. Sharon reaches out tentatively.

“May I?”

“Yeah, ‘course.” Bucky turns his head so she has easier access, standing still as she trails her fingers along his braid crown. He has to bite back a snicker at the memory of Steve doggedly following Thor’s motions, one man braiding each side of his head before making both meet in the middle.The two braids meet at the back of his head in a messy man bun—Thor’s doing, although Steve had worn them down and gotten in two failed tries before Bucky had actively ripped the bobby pins out of his head. “I’d offer to teach you how to do it, but this is kinda Thor’s handywork.”

“Thor’s a hair goal, honestly.”

“You know, I think I should be more offended, but you’re not even wrong.”

Sharon laughs, letting her fingers trail down to Bucky’s face as he turns back around, eyes bright. “Don’t worry, babe, you’re a close second.”

“Well, that’s all I ask.” Bucky smiles, letting his eyes fall closed as he leans in for a quick kiss—a little too glossy, but not bad at all. When he pulls back, he makes sure to keep their close proximity. “So, do you think you can spare a rose for me tonight?”

She lowers her voice too, smirking and lifting a hand to the collar of her dress as she casually covers up her microphone. “Between you and me, I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

“Hey, Sharon, can I steal you away for a second?”

Sharon’s eyes lock onto a point over Bucky’s shoulder; Bucky sighs and pulls away, turning to face Peter Quill. It’s something of a relief, when it comes down to it—now that Bucky’s got the relative certainty of a rose to look forward to, it’d be in bad taste to keep Sharon away from the other men any longer.

“Think you can handle being on your own for a little while?”

“I make no promises.” He tugs Sharon closer by the waist, smacking a kiss on her cheek. “See you at the rose ceremony.”

Right. Now just to find his way out of this veritable hedge maze, no big deal. He _could_ ask the camerawoman trailing him, technically, but that would involve admitting defeat and Bucky’s not about to let a bunch of _plants_ defeat him. Thankfully, by the time he’s made his way to the end of the cobblestone trail, he’s picking up the familiar voice of the men from behind a nearby trellis wall overrun with vines. He’s about to rejoin them when he hears Brock’s voice.

“I’m telling you, it’s true. I found out the other day—Barnes is _gay.”_

 _...Well_ then. That’s enough to make him stop in his tracks, lingering on the other side of the wall. He’d told Sharon about his sexuality in passing on their first date while they were discussing their romantic histories, and he’d told Steve and Wade about his sexuality in passing on the group date, but he’s not an _idiot_ and Brock pretty much radiates the natural stench of ‘Bigotry and Prejudice No. 5’.

“Where did you hear this from?”

“A _very_ reliable source.” So, the producers, then. Probably Christine. Jesus, Bucky regrets filling out that paperwork. “I’m just saying—if he’s not even into women, he’s definitely here for the wrong reasons.”

“Actually, he’s bisexual.” Oh, God. Bucky’s glad that Steve’s standing up for him and all, but the threatening undertone of his voice is making Bucky feel like he should’ve kept their wrists tied together. “Your _source_ sounds pretty close-minded, full offense.”

“Whatever. Even if he _is_ into Sharon, he still shouldn’t be living in the house.” Brock snorts as a chorus of voices rise up in protest. “No, no, I’m serious! How can any of us be comfortable if we know there’s some pervert running around staring at our dicks the entire time? That’s basically sexual harassment.”

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this, haven’t you?” Cameron speaks slowly, but his tone goes up at the end with a skeptically judgmental lilt.

“I’m just saying what we’re all thinking, anyways. And does Sharon know?” _Wow._ What a perfect asshole. _“Someone’s_ gotta tell her. She needs to know what she’s getting into before he cheats on her with some random dude in a back alley.”

Bucky has to actively contemplate whether violating the no-violence clause in his contract is worth it. He really, _really_ shoulda shot that fucker in the groin.

“What the hell are you implying?”

“That explains why he has so much casual sex, doesn’t it? And now he’s living with a bunch of attractive dudes...I bet he’s been trying to con some of us into it, too. Kinda makes you wish you’d never given him the time of day, huh? You especially, Rogers—did he feel you up, when he threw himself at you in the forest?”

“Alright, you’ve said enough.” Even through the leaves in the trellis, Bucky can see Steve’s shadow move as he shoots up suddenly out of his chair. “Bisexuality doesn’t make you any more likely to cheat on a partner, what Bucky chooses to tell Sharon is none of our business, just because some pile of human garbage outed him to you doesn’t mean it’s fine to out him to other people, and if _you_ think you’re such hot shit that people in the house are staring at your dick that says more about _you_ than anyone else.”

“Yeah, what’s that supposed to mean, that people can’t be friends with the gender they’re attracted to?” Wade sounds uncharacteristically serious.

“Have you never had a female friend?”

“Listen to him. Of _course_ he hasn’t had a female friend.” That’s Loki, sounding coldly detached.

“Can we not talk about this? I don’t feel comfortable discussing Bucky’s sexuality without him here,” Bruce mutters quietly. Bucky suspects he wouldn’t have been able to hear him over the general chatter if he weren’t sitting right by the trellis wall.

“I’m just saying—” Brock raises his voice, taking on a defense tone. “—we need to figure out how we’re going to deal with the problem—”

“What _problem?!”_

“The problem of the raging homophobe in our house?” Steve’s voice is hard and icy, his shadow tall and imposing even though he thankfully makes no move to step closer to Brock. _“That’s_ the sort of thing someone should tell Sharon.”

Honestly, Bucky thinks he should probably be a little more bothered by the fact that Christine outed him to Brock; outed him to everyone. As he hears the overlapping voices of the men drowning Brock out, though, all he feels is calm—calmer than he was on the group date, than he was during Thor’s date card, than he’s been all week, really. He trusts these people to have his back, somehow—even the generally aloof ones, like T’Challa and Strange, are speaking up in his defense now. And of course there’s Steve, easy to pick out from among the rest, in his element and full of righteous fury.

Bucky shakes his head and turns away, smiling wide for the camera before he goes to get a drink. Better luck next time, Christine Everhart.

* * *

**ITM: Peter Quill**

_[Peter stands in the lush penthouse courtyard, the garden lights illuminating the greenery behind him.]_

“Am I said that Sharon sent me home?” _[He frowns to himself, scratching his nose as he thinks.]_ “Um...Can I get back to you on that?”

* * *

**ITM: Stephen Strange**

“Frankly, I’m not entirely surprised. Sharon and I...well, I think I kind of saw it coming.” _[He crosses his arms, sighing.]_ “Still, I’m disappointed. Having that first one-on-one date, I really thought we might’ve had the chance to...” _[He purses his lips.]_ “...develop a real connection. Still, I wish her the best. She has a good group of men here; I’m sure she’ll find what she’s looking for. It’s too bad that it couldn’t be me.”

* * *

**ITM: Loki Laufeyson**

“Am I angry that Sharon eliminated me? Perhaps.” _[He chuckles to himself, although he doesn’t seem amused.]_ “Now, I think the _real_ question is whether I’m angry that she eliminated me before Thor.” _[He looks around himself for a second.]_ “You know, I came here in part to make sure my brother didn’t make a fool of himself. You and your manipulations, you understand.”

_“What are you talking about?”_

_[Loki raises an eyebrow.]_ “Please. You’re not at all subtle. If you were, I’d almost be impressed.”

* * *

**ITM: Sharon Carter**

_[Sharon sits juxtaposed against a cozy, if generic, array of lamps and curtains. She’s wearing a nondescript black sweater and light makeup.]_

“I’m excited to take the men to Washington D.C! It’ll be great to finally go back home and show all the guys where I’m from. I got really strong connections with all eleven men I’ve got left and it’s getting harder and harder, so hopefully this’ll be a good chance to reconnect with my roots and focus on developing serious relationships.”

* * *

**ITM: Steve Rogers**

_[Steve stands back on the balcony of their penthouse; the sun’s setting behind him, painting the landscape in glowing red. He squints a little as he speaks to the camera.]_

“Yeah, I’m sad to be leaving Phoenix—it’s been a bit of a personal dream to come here and it’s the perfect place to find love.” _[He grins sheepishly even as he says it, like he knows how it sounds.]_ “But who knows? Maybe I’ll come back happily married in ten years and remember this as the place where I finally started to fall for my soulmate.”

_“You really think you’re starting to feel that way, Steve?”_

“Well, maybe I’m not ready to say it on camera quite yet.” _[Steve ducks his head, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously; when he glances at the camera, he’s wearing an embarrassed smile.]_ “But who knows, Pepper? Anything’s possible.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -i'm sure it surprises no one at this point that the men are trapped in the house, but--fun fact--the contestants do indeed fly coach!  
> -yay, contestant breakdowns -.-  
> -requisite competition date is real. it's alive.  
> -the 'bucky interrupting steve's itm' moment was inspired entirely by a moment on andie's season during THEIR weird sports-competition date, which i believe was a basketball game? pretty sure it was jj running by and interrupting josh's itm. it was a fun moment, so i had to shove it in somehow.  
> -a big point of contention during nick's season was the fact that corinne olympos took naps during group time, which a lot of women took personally. seems like a weird issue to take, but it's a matter of having respect for the time of your fellow contestants, apparently; lots of weird shit happens on these shows  
> -sorry for the weird formatting of the all-nighter it just sorta happened  
> -bucky's teeth situation is my teeth. no braces. baby canine. i should be flossing more, though :/  
> -harley bc it's basic. indian scout bc of bettenoire's one fic. ducati monster bc rosa diaz mentioned it once on b99. i don't know anything about motorcycles.  
> -i wrote this chapter before captain marvel came out and if i'd seen it i swear i would've made carol danvers' role in this story a lot cooler
> 
> we're at a point in the story now where everyone who gets eliminated onward is a named character. for those of you keeping track, there are eleven contestants remaining; the ones that are left are steve, bucky, rhodey, scott, bruce, t'challa, thor, brock, jack, wade, and cameron. i will take your guesses on elimination order in the comments below.  
> also sorry for the delay school is i think actively trying to kill me will let you know


	6. Week 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: brock being even more of a homophobic douchebag
> 
> sorry in advance for all the hamilton

“So  _ that’s _ why he wouldn’t look at me on the airplane.” Bucky passes Steve his singular suit jacket before picking up a bottle of what Steve  _ hates _ that he recognizes as gel-based hair serum. “Hey, between Pietro, Wanda, Peter, and Pepper, who do you think’s most likely to buy me more product?”

“Pietro. I can’t believe you aren’t more pissed about this.” Steve stares at Bucky as he putters around the newest of their hotel rooms, scouring meticulously for pillow mints and judging the complimentary coffee. He’s humming something under his breath that is  _ definitely _ still that Andy Grammer song; halfway through the plane ride from Arizona to Washington D.C, Bucky had woken up from a dream and very nearly screamed the title loudly enough to wake the entire cabin. It’s ‘Honey, I’m Good’—at least they’ve established that now. “Buck, are you even listening to me?”

“Of course I’m listening.” Bucky sniffs dubiously at the pillow on the right side of the bed—his—before switching it with a pillow on the left side of the bed—Steve’s. “I told you, I was behind the trellis wall the entire time. I was listening back then, too.” He pulls a face, then switches them back. “I was  _ not _ listening on the plane. I was sleeping on the plane.”

“Yeah, I kinda gathered.” He  _ did _ scream somewhat nonsensically when he woke up, after all. “I just—I’m sorry, why  _ aren’t _ you more pissed about this?”

“Honestly?” Bucky shrugs, lips twisting upward ruefully. “I’m kinda relieved. I’ve been living in basically perpetual fear of the next shitty thing they’ll drop on me, and then it’s  _ homophobes.” _

“And this is good why?”

“Because it’s not some eldritch abomination or psychological mindfuck or a charity strip show? I know homophobes. I’m used to homophobes.” Bucky rolls his eyes, fluffs up his pillows, and tosses himself onto his side of the bed; Steve takes the hint and tosses himself accordingly on his own end, sighing. Oh, God. The pillow  _ does _ smell. Steve subtly shifts so his nose is over the divide onto Bucky’s pillow—there, better. Bucky, oblivious, just rolls his shoulders and sighs at the ceiling. “Especially Rumlow’s particular flavor of homophobe. It’s perfect. The producers will latch onto this and forget about everything else, and I’ll just imagine his mouth full of dicks every time he opens it and tune him out with years of practical experience.” He shifts his head so he’s better facing Steve, looking up at him lazily through his unfairly thick eyelashes. “The better question: are  _ you _ gonna be okay with this? You seem kinda tense about this whole situation—you know you don’t need to defend my honor or whatever, right?”

“Yeah, of course.” On a practical level, sure, yes, Steve understands this sequence of words and its factual truth. Bucky Barnes is a grown-ass man who does not need Steve to engage in a completely justified argument with Brock Rumlow about why his garbage brain is spewing absolute garbage about bisexuality. It’s just that every time Brock Rumlow says bisexual people are promiscuous or unfaithful or secret leprechauns or whatever, Steve suddenly gets the urge to forcefully shut his mouth with all five knuckles. “‘Course, Buck—I’m not gonna fight anyone or anything.” Of course not, that’s just his default reaction to this sort of thing in his everyday life, why would anyone assume he’d do that sort of thing here?

Judging from the skeptical eyebrow raise and stubborn tilt of his chin, Bucky, who Steve should never have told his childhood stories to, does not believe him at all. “Geez, it must be bad. You’re not even making some dumb joke about how I  _ have _ no honor to defend.”

“Well...you don’t, which is why you don’t have to worry about me defending it.” Steve rolls his eyes. “And if Rumlow says something dumb, I’ll just—”

“—do nothing.”

“—politely correct him, that’s all.” Oh. Whoops. Was that not the answer?

“You will  _ do nothing.” _ Bucky shifts, propping his head up on one hand and fixing Steve with his most impressive glower. Steve, who’s had plenty of experience listening to Bucky sleepily cuss out the morning wake-up call, just sticks out both hands and pokes Bucky in the dimples; Bucky bats his hands away viciously, scowl deepening, which really only serves to exaggerate the target. “I’m serious, Steve. I know you’re coming from a good place, I’m pretty sure you’re physically incapable of coming from a  _ bad _ one, but—”

“Excellent, you’re both here.” 

Thor enters the room without knocking, as is customary at this point; by now, they’re all conditioned to associate knocking with the imminent arrival of Tony Stark. Steve suspects he won’t be able to hear impact on wood again without bracing himself for expensive cologne and bone-deep exhaustion. 

“Thor.” Bucky doesn’t bother moving, tilting his head up to look at him properly. They’ve been afforded a black-out day—no cameras or recording, supposedly—since they’ve just come in from the airport. It’s understandable to not want to move or talk drama or see...people. “Sit down. D’ya want a pillow mint?” He wrinkles his nose. “Shitty coffee?”

“As delightful as that sounds, I won’t be long.” This is Thor, so he doesn’t hesitate in the doorway so much as pause for dramatic effect before lowering his voice. “Bucky, I’ve been told to inform you—the house has been talking, and we’ll be with you when the trouble begins.”

Bucky lazily salutes Thor before falling back into the mattress, sighing tiredly and putting a hand over his eyes. “Thanks.” He shifts his arm up after a second, fixing Thor with an uncharacteristically somber stare. “Tell the others I say thanks, too.”

“Hang on.” Steve can feel his fight instinct (allegedly, the ‘flight’ is nonexistent) itching to go as Thor nods and closes the door behind him. “Trouble? Did I—did someone hear something? Do you need me to—?”

“That sentence better end with ‘make you a cup of shitty hotel coffee’, because otherwise the answer is still no.” Bucky shuffles a little further into the bed, pressing his arm back over his eyes and sighing. “And to answer your other question, also no. Nothing new’s happened, beyond Christine outing me to Brock.”

Steve hauls himself out of bed, grabs the packet of instant coffee, and briefly considers tossing it in Bucky’s general direction. He  _ does _ deserve a single day of peace, though, and Steve intends to give it to him by any means necessary. “Okay, but what does that have to do with—”

“I repeat.” A hard edge enters Bucky’s voice even as he grabs Steve’s pillow and shoves it over his face, then hurls it back over as he wrinkles his nose. Yeah, that pillow’s gross. “Nothing new has happened since  _ Christine Everhart _ outed me to Brock.”

“...Oh.”

The weird thing is, Steve’s gotten desensitized enough to the strange Twilight-Zone effect of this television show to forget, sometimes, that he’s on a  _ television show _ where a lot of his behavior and relationship dynamics aren’t normal. There are the men in the house, obviously, who he’s mostly (operative term:  _ mostly) _ getting along with; there’s Sharon, who he’s probably (operative term:  _ probably) _ developing feelings for; and there’s Pepper, who he usually (operative term:  _ usually) _ trusts to support him. Beyond that, the limited interactions he has with the rest of the cast and crew tend to be a mixed bag. Even the staged chats and crazy dates are starting to seem like a normal part of everyday life, which  _ wow, _ terrifying. It’s almost possible to forget that Big Brother is always watching and also actively manipulating everything about his life, from the food he eats to the people he talks to.

But a  _ producer _ outed Bucky to the house—via proxy, sure. But a producer.

This drama’s gonna be milked for  _ all _ the views.

“...I’m gonna go make you coffee,” Steve finally settles on, grabbing one of the cups from the nightstand and moving toward the door. As Bucky grunts something that’s either ‘thank you’ or ‘two creams and a sugar’, Steve quietly reaffirms to himself that he’s going to give Bucky a quiet, drama-free day. And then as smooth a week as possible, on pain of death. Not necessarily Steve’s death, either. At this point, he’s fed up enough to not be particularly picky.

* * *

**ITM: Brock Rumlow**

“I’m excited to be here in Washington D.C. with Sharon, but I’m not happy about the other people I’m here with.”

_ “What makes you say that?” _

“Last week, I learned that Bucky isn’t here for the right reasons. Not only has he not had a serious relationship in ages, but the last person he was with on social media was a  _ man.” [He sits back, pausing for effect.] _ “He’s  _ gay! _ I’ve got nothing against gay people, but I just think he needs to be honest with Sharon about how he’s leading her on.”

_ “Why do you think he’s here, if not to find love?” _

“Maybe he’s here so he can ogle the rest of us in the house. Maybe he’s here just to be on television.”  _ [He makes a face.] _ “I don’t know. I don’t know the guy, but what the hell else could he be here for?”

* * *

**ITM: James “Bucky” Barnes**

“I’d like to set the record straight, now that I know what’s coming up.”

_ “What are you talking about, Bucky?” _

_ [Bucky looks away for a second, annoyed, before turning back with a tired glare.] _ “Look, Pep, I was on the other side of the wall during the rose ceremony. Whatever you guys are planning—”

_ “I assumed you’d caught on already, Bucky.” [Pepper sounds apologetic.] “I’m not insulting your intelligence, I just need more exposition for the camera.” _

“...Jesus, Fine.”  _ [He crosses his arms and closes his eyes, tilting his neck from side to side.]  _ “Last week, I heard Brock telling the rest of the contestants my personal information. I  _ am _ bisexual—I’m not ashamed of the fact. Frankly, I’m surprised he’s only now learning about it; I think I’ve mentioned it in passing to more than a few people.”  _ [His eyes flicker briefly to the point where Pepper might be standing.] _ “Honestly, this really shouldn’t be a point of drama right now.”

_ “Right now?” _

“In twenty-goddamn-nineteen, Pepper.”  _ [He rubs a hand tiredly over his face.] _ “I guess  _ someone _ had to bring it up on this show eventually, but  _ Christ. _ Do people really care about this?”

* * *

**ITM: Jack Rollins**

“Look, I’m not saying Bucky  _ can’t _ be attracted to Sharon. I don’t agree with Brock on  _ that.” [Jack rolls his eyes.] _ “I’m just saying, if he’s got twice as many people to date as the rest of us, I don’t understand why  _ he _ gets to come on this show when the place could go to someone else.”

* * *

**ITM: Bruce Banner**

“I don’t want to talk about this, Maria.”  _ [He takes off his glasses, sighing as he wipes them on his shirt and cringing at whatever he’s being told.] _ “Because it’s stupid and, frankly, I can’t believe you’re televising this. I am  _ not _ qualified for this show.”

_ [Someone mumbles on the other side of the camera. Whatever it is, Bruce turns toward the voice with a deadpan stare before sighing, ducking his head, and putting his glasses back on.] _

“Fine. All I’ll say about the matter is that Brock Rumlow would do well to learn that, if he holds certain...opinions, it might be better for him  _ and _ everyone else if he kept his mouth shut.”

* * *

**ITM: Wade Wilson**

_ [Wade shrugs one shoulder.] _ “Yeah, I said it in my application.”

_ [Someone says something. Whatever it is, it makes Wade rolls his eyes, exasperated.]  _ “Yeah, because flirting is  _ fun. _ Just because I’m pansexual doesn’t mean I’m trying to bed every person in the house. You know that, right, Pepper?”  _ [He sits forward suddenly.]  _ “Oh my God, Pepper, person to person—you  _ do _ know that, right?!”

_ [Pepper speaks sharply and loudly enough for the camera to pick up, offended.] “Of course I do!” _

“Geez, just checking.”

_ [Pepper’s voice fades back out of focus. Wade scoffs as he sits back again.] _ “Yeah, they probably all think it’s a joke. Maybe I’ll tell Bucky at some point, let him know he’s not alone or something.”

_ “But you’re not gonna tell Brock?” _

“Ha!”  _ [Wade snorts, tapping his cheek thoughtfully as he looks to the side.] _ “No, no...I think I’ll save this one for a moment when it’ll  _ really _ make his head explode.”

* * *

**ITM: Steve Rogers**

“—fact that you would even  _ think _ of outing him like this before doing the common courtesy of asking him! And to a person you  _ know _ is a homophobe, really, Pepper? All for the sake of generating drama in the house?! Wasn’t it shameful enough four seasons ago with that dumb gay-shaming ‘Brokeback Bachelor’ bullshit on Kaitlyn’s—no, I’m not gonna stop, you asked about it so now you’re gonna  _ hear _ about it. What is with you guys and the exploitation of our personal information, anyway?  Oh, and just because  _ he’s _ fine with it doesn’t make the behavior itself fine—it’s the principle of the matter, oh my God—”

* * *

**ITM: Scott Lang**

“Going into this week, I want to focus on developing my relationship with Sharon.”  _ [Scott stares wide-eyed into the camera, a deer-in-the-headlights expression on his face.] _ “I’ve got my daughter, Cassie, back at home; I miss her every day, and I don’t wanna take time away from her if this isn’t going anywhere.”

_ “...But?” _

“But I can  _ not _ get away from this.”  _ [Scott groans, abruptly sagging and dropping his head into his hands. After a few seconds, he laughs weakly into his palms.] _ “Oh my  _ God. _ Why is this even an issue?!”

* * *

**ITM: Cameron Klein**

“I’m glad that Sharon chose me for a one-on-one. This week, I want more than anything to establish the nature of our relationship—we click so well and communicate so easily, but I’m curious to see whether we have the opportunity to become something more.”  _ [Cameron shifts.] _ “Frankly, I’m also glad to get out of the house. Ever since Brock outed Bucky at the rose ceremony, tensions have been at an all-time high. It’ll be nice to take a break from it and just...focus on my time with my girlfriend.”

* * *

“I just got back  _ The Command of the Air _ from Cameron—”

“I’ve already read that.” 

“Well, then that’s all my World War II books.” If anything, Bucky looks impressed as he turns towards the open doorway, where Rhodey’s leaning with his arms crossed. “Unless you’d like to change your stance on fiction…?”

“I’m not gonna read  _ The Book Thief.” _

“You should, it’s pretty good,” Steve mutters absentmindedly, picking the displaced books off their bed and stacking them back into their proper places. Although the crew have deserted the hotel suite for now, having packed up for the night after Cameron returned from his one-on-one, he can’t help shooting wary glances at the open door. “Bucky kinda shoved it in my hands on the plane, since he won’t let me skip ahead on  _ American Gods _ unless he’s reading it to me.”

“...He  _ reads _ to you?!”

“Alright, how about another history book, then?” Bucky stomps back over to his suitcase/traveling library and begins pulling books back out again, ignoring Steve’s strangled squawk—he  _ just _ put those back. “I’ve got some stuff about Ancient Greece and the fall of the Roman Empire, a book about the American Revolution alongside a copy of Thomas Paine’s  _ Common Sense—” _

“You might wanna take a seat, this could be a while.”

“Shut up, Steve. Oh!” Bucky turns, running a hand haphazardly through his already-messy hair as he wields a book triumphantly in his other. “I’ve got Ron Chernow’s—”

_ “—Alexander Hamilton.” _ The two finish the sentence together; Rhodey points as the two nod appreciatively at each other, like recognizing like. Steve, who’s bonded with people in this house over less, just sighs and begins putting books back again. “Well, of course you do. Wait, you  _ live _ in New York—did you see it on Broadway?”

“You bet your bottom dollar. $200 to change my life? I lived off pizza and ramen for a few months, but it was  _ so _ worth it.” Steve bites his lip to refrain from mentioning that Bucky notably lives off pizza and ramen anyway; he shouldn’t intrude on their moment, no matter how much he suddenly needs to figure out if Bucky went to the same showing he did. “It’s been a while, sure, but if I’m not retweeting Lin-Manuel Miranda at least once a week, assume I’ve been kidnapped and call SWAT.”

He can’t help himself. “Or, alternatively, that you’ve been kidnapped and taken to the  _ Bachelorette.” _

“Contribute to the  _ Hamilton _ talk or shut your pretty mouth, Steve.”

Well, if he’s being so kindly invited and everything. Steve turns, raising an eyebrow and scoffing as Bucky points a finger in his general direction. “How does a bastard, orphan—”

“—son of a whore and a Scotsman—”

_ “—dropped in the middle of a forgotten spot in the Caribbean— _ Oh my God, are we actually doing this?” Rhodey looks apprehensive even as he joins in, watching fearfully as Bucky tosses the book onto his bed and and starts circling Steve with a razor-sharp grin.

“—by providence impoverished, in squalor—don’t test me, Steve, I have the entire musical memorized and I will belt all of it—”

“—grow up to be a hero and a scholar—sure, you’ll do all of  _ Hamilton _ at the drop of a hat, but it takes you literal weeks to figure out ‘Honey, I’m Good’—”

The three of them are so caught up in their determinedly dramatic reciting of the  _ Hamilton _ opening number that they’re caught off guard by the sudden sound of pounding footsteps down the hall; Steve and Bucky audibly scream as Wade throws himself onto Rhodey’s back and latches on like a spider monkey, having clearly taken a running start. Rhodey jerks, trying to throw the sudden weight off even as Wade pumps a fist in the air and shouts gleefully; in the end, Rhodey loses his balance and they both tumble down.

“THE TEN DOLLAR FOUNDING FATHER WITHOUT A FATHER!” 

“Wade, what the  _ fuck?!” _

“Is that not what we’re doing?” Scott materializes in the doorway, stepping gingerly over Wade and Rhodey where they’ve landed on Bucky and Steve’s bedroom carpet. “I  _ told _ Wade I heard someone singing the  _ Hamilton _ opening. Y’know, ‘the ten dollar founding father without a father got a lot farther’—why’d we stop? Do you guys not know the rest of it?”

_ “Got a lot farther.” _ Bucky takes a single threatening step toward Scott, clearly offended at the very insinuation. “By working a lot harder, by being a lot smarter—”

“—by being a self-starter!” Wade chimes in cheerily from the floor over Rhodey’s groaning, raising his hand in the air and giving a thumbs-up. 

“By fourteen— _ ow,  _ nope, everything still hurts. I’m out. Wade, why?!” As Rhodey gratefully takes Steve’s outstretched hand and hauls himself up, Bucky starts backing a mostly amused and slightly scared Scott out into the hallway, poking him in the chest to emphasize the beats as he continues barking out the lyrics. He looks like he’s ready to recite the entire musical and go on to literally shoot Scott for the grand finale—Steve has to bite his tongue to stop himself from laughing.

“It’s  _ Hamilton.” _ Wade shrugs a shoulder, glancing toward the doorway as Bucky’s snarl fades into the distance. “Always reblog.”

“What?!”

“Should someone stop them?” From somewhere further off, another door opens; even from where they’re standing on the opposite side of the suite, Steve can hear Thor’s booming voice starting in on Aaron Burr’s next verse, followed closely by Bruce belting Hamilton’s part in a remarkably melodic tenor. “Oh. Oh  _ God. _ This isn’t gonna become a thing, is it?”

A distant hum that sounds suspiciously like four-part harmony picks up in the depths of the hotel. Rhodey and Steve exchange a look as Wade cackles before simultaneously darting out the door, but by the time the three of them make it to the main room, it’s too late. On the couch, Cameron, Bruce, and Thor sit shoulder-to-shoulder humming the instrumental line—Thor exuberantly carries the tune, although he’s a little off-key, while Bruce alone manages the high harmony. Scott sits on the floor, clapping along excitedly as  _ T’Challa, _ who Steve has never seen go this hard at anything in the entire show, destroys Burr’s rap like a goddamn boss. Brock’s off doing ITMs, but even Jack’s there, sitting lazily in a chair and swaying his foot to the beat. And, of course, there’s Bucky standing on the coffee table, mouthing the words as he waves his arm frantically like an orchestra conductor.

“—In New York, you can be a new man!”

Bucky shakes his hair out of his face and laughs as he points at Scott, all animosity forgotten, who begins singing Hamilton’s part as the other men promptly drop what they’re doing switch over to the ensemble. For a second, Steve’s worried he’s going to lean too far off the table and lose balance, but he rights himself with a wild grin, clearly in his element. Rhodey and Wade pick up the background vocals for the chorus when the men falter, and Bucky takes Burr’s lines again as they reach the end, getting more and more excited with each passing line. When they get to the end, Bucky points to the men on the couch.

“We fought with him!”

“Good! Steve!”

Steve nearly stumbles back as Bucky turns his gaze toward where he’s standing inconspicuously in the hallway. “Me, I died for him,” he recites on instinct before his brain catches up with current events. “Wait, wait, why am  _ I _ the one who has to die?!”

“Because I said so! T’Challa!” Bucky pivots on his heel and points; T’Challa parrots back the appropriate line.

“Me, I trusted him!”

“Good, good!” Bucky raises his hands high in the air. “Everyone!”

_ “Me, I loved him!” _

“Wait, is Hamilton Sharon in this scenario?”

“And me?!” Bucky thumps his fist against his chest, only to get cut off with a strangled yelp as Wade tackles him off the table and onto an empty couch with a strangled scream. The two struggle with each other for a split second before Wade manages to disentangle himself and clamber onto the table, shooting finger-guns at Bucky; thankfully, Bucky just lifts his head and sighs, conceding defeat with a laugh. 

“I’m the damn fool that shot him!” Wade cackles triumphantly as Scott cups his hands over his mouth and helpfully provides the echo.

“You said it, not me!” Frankly, Wade’s lucky no one got hurt. From the couch, Bucky raises his arms again.

“Everyone!”

_ “There’s a million things I haven’t done, but just you wait!”  _

As Wade hops down from the table, satisfied with his moment, Steve takes the opportunity to snap his fingers and point at Bucky, who’s smiling at the ceiling as he pants, hair sticking to the sweat on his forehead. “What’s your name, man?”

_ “Alexander Hamilton!” _

There’s a moment of stunned silence after the last beat before the men begin laughing in earnest; Thor thumps Bruce on the back so hard he doubles over, asking where he learned how to sing like that, while Cameron and Wade begin firing questions at T’Challa. Bucky flings a hand over his eyes, giggling like a maniac when he turns to see Scott flipping him off.

Steve leans against the wall and watches the flurry of activity for a moment, letting the sound of excited chatter wash over him. It’s been a while since he’s felt like this—the easy camaraderie and energy of an entire room of friends having fun together. It’s a good feeling, a moment that makes all the other bullshit feel weirdly worthwhile, although he’s sure he’ll change his mind the moment the producers invent some new and creative way to torture him. He may not end up with Sharon—he’s not even being compensated for his time—but somehow he managed to make a lot of remarkably good friends out of this steaming garbage fire in the armpit of humanity. It’s incredible, how close they’ve gotten.

And then Jack bumps his shoulder as he leaves the room, giving Steve a skeptical look. Well, it’s incredible how close  _ most _ of them have gotten.

“Hey, Barnes.” Rhodey calls out over the general din; Bucky shifts his arm, blinking back curiously. “I think I’ll take that Hamilton biography after all. What’s the going rate?”

Immediately, all conversation stills as nine heads simultaneously turn toward Bucky.

“...The  _ Chernow _ biography?”

“Is that the one the musical’s based off of?”

“Of  _ course  _ it is!”

“I want it!”

“Whatever he’s paying you, I’ll double it.”

“I’ll pay you  _ in real life.  _ I will  _ Venmo _ you.”

Bucky blinks, sitting up and shooting Steve a helpless smile over the other men’s heads. “I don’t have Venmo.”

“I will  _ Paypal _ you.”

Bucky shoots Steve another look, one that’s less helpless in a ‘what-do-I-do-with-these-losers’ way and more helpless in a ‘I’m-about-to-be-torn-to-pieces-by-vultures’ way, grimacing with wide eyes. Steve, who unfortunately swore to himself that he’d give Bucky as little trouble as possible, sighs and steps forward as he summons up what Sam calls his ‘go-to-your-room’ voice. It’s getting harder and harder to remind himself he’s not, as Tony keeps calling him, the ‘house dad’. “Guys? Guys.” Oh God. Here it comes. “BOYS! Settle down!”

Everyone settles down. Steve tries hard not to think about it.

“There’s a simple way to solve this problem.” Bucky snickers from his place on the couch, adamantly ignoring the look Steve gives him. “Bucky, is something funny to you?”

“No, it’s just...” Bucky’s voice is still high and breathless from his bout of laughter. He meets Steve gaze with watery eyes, grinning and shaking his head. “If you say anything about ‘sharing is caring’, Steve, I’m gonna fucking lose it.”

“Yeah, I don’t  _ wanna _ share with Wade,” Scott mutters mutinously, sending Bucky into another round of screeching laughter. Steve closes his eyes and counts backwards from ten, reminding himself that goodness still exists in the world. It’s a little difficult, over Bucky’s hysterical hyena screeching, but he manages.

“What I was  _ going  _ to say is that we can have Bucky read it to us every night after the crew leaves.” It’s not a bad solution, considering he had to make it up on the fly after Bucky ensured he could never suggest sharing the book over the course of the week. “That way we don’t have to fight over who gets it first, no one has to pay pillow mints for it—”

“—woah, woah, I don’t perform for less than—”

“—no one but  _ me  _ has to pay pillow mints for it,” Steve amends, shooting Bucky a glare; Bucky falls silent again, although he winks at Steve, clearly ready to gouge him for all he’s worth later. “And we all get to discuss it with each other. It’s a win-win-win.” A win-win-win- _ win _ for Steve, actually, because if Bucky’s busy reading the Chernow biography aloud, maybe he’ll let Steve read  _ American Gods _ on his own time. “Everyone agreed?”

For one terrifying second, the men blink at him. Silently, Steve sends up a prayer and hopes they won’t start tearing him apart.

“As expected,” Bucky pipes up blithely from the other side of the room, putting his arm back over his eyes and sighing. Clearly, the impromptu musical performance took a lot out of him. “A rational compromise from house dad.”

“Stop saying it like rational compromise is a bad thing.” It takes him a second. “And dammit, Bucky, I am  _ not _ house dad!”

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W5D3_MR_C02_MC2.mxf**

_ [Bucky enters the living room, blinking blearily in pajamas and eating scrambled eggs straight out of the pan. Scott’s curled up in the armchair reading  _ Ready Player One _ with a cup of tea; Thor is day-drinking and watching with mild interest as T’Challa and Steve chit-chat over their cups of coffee. Bucky surveys the room with a critical eye before coming to a decision, lowering his pan, and taking in a deep breath.] _

“I AM NOT THROWING AWAY! MY!”

_ [All four men simultaneously raise their beverages without looking up and call back in unison.] _

_ “SHOT!” _

_ [Bucky nod to himself and exits the room, mumbling the rest of the words. The other men continue as if nothing has happened.] _

* * *

**ITM: Scott Lang**

“My daughter’s gotten very into  _ Hamilton, _ so I know the entire soundtrack.”  _ [Scott shifts, sitting forward in his seat with a grin.] _ “So I know that this came one week too late.  _ One week too late _ to make ‘why do you assume you’re the smartest in the room’ jokes every time Doctor Strange entered the room.”  _ [He sighs, hanging his head.] _ “You win some, you lose some.”

* * *

**ITM: Cameron Klein**

“I’m gonna be honest—I like the musical, but it feels kinda like everyone here knows  _ all _ the lyrics, and I only know...some of them. Whenever they start singing stuff I don’t know, I just smile and mouth ‘peas and carrots’ until we reach something I recognize.”  _ [He gives a strained grin.] _ “Maria. Please.  _ Save me.” _

* * *

**ITM: T’Challa Udaku**

“Yeah, I know it.”  _ [T’Challa nods, smiling fondly.] _ “Shuri—you know, my sister, the CEO of our company—she won’t stop referencing it in emails. I think everyone on the board knows it now, if only because we need to in order to understand what she’s telling us.”

* * *

**ITM: Bruce Banner**

“My favorite song from the soundtrack? Probably ‘Wait for It.’”  _ [Bruce pauses, frowning.] _ “Maria? Maria, are you okay? Why are you laughing?”

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W5D3_SR3_C55_MC1.mxf**

_ [Although there’s the quiet murmur of ITMs coming faintly down one of the hallways, the suite is almost entirely quiet when the lights come on. The shot goes white for a second as the camera adjust to the brightness; when the picture comes into focus, Bucky and Steve are in the main room, each carrying a bottle of beer. Steve giggles, smothering his entire hand over Bucky’s mouth before throwing himself onto a nearby couch. Bucky laughs too, leaning against the wall.] _

“God, you’re such a  _ lightweight.” _

“Shut up. Where was I?”  _ [Steve takes another drink, grinning lazily up at Bucky.] _ “Right—‘I may not live to see our glory—’”

_ “You _ shut up.”  _ [Bucky walks over to Steve, sitting on the same couch as Steve shifts his head to make room and keeps singing.]  _ “I regret ever making this a thing. I regret ever  _ meeting _ you—”

“But I will gladly join the fight—”

“This is reality television, Steve, hardly a fight—”  _ [Bucky puts his hand over Steve’s mouth, but Steve licks at the palm until Bucky removes it with a yelp, then keeps caterwauling.] _

“And when our children tell our story—”

“What children, Rogers,  _ what fucking children?!” _

“They’ll tell the story of tonight!”  _ [Steve laughs to himself, promptly hiccups, and raises his beer above his head as he tilts his head back to look at Bucky through his lashes.]  _ “Let’s have another round tonight?”

_ [Bucky sighs, knocking the neck of his beer bottle against Steve’s as he smiles fondly down at him despite himself, fingers fiddling with the ends of Steve’s hair.] _ “Raise a glass to freedom.” _ [He lifts the bottle to his lips, his gaze going briefly directly into the camera with a raised eyebrow and a wry smile.] _ “Something we will never see again.”

* * *

“No,  _ damn _ it, Steve, you’re supposed to be singing Eliza’s part! Jesus, you’re a  _ terrible _ wife—”

“Hey, not in front of the cameras!”

“Sharon deserves to  _ know _ how terrible of a wife you are! C’mon, you’re the only one who can sing that high.” Bucky rests his elbow on Steve’s head, tapping him smartly on the forehead before looking around the rest of the room; they’ve spent so much time in formation that they’ve all got their favorite seats, and Bucky’s favorite seat is usually the armrest on the couch next to Steve. “Getting a room of people to sing ‘Non-Stop’ together is a  _ literal dream _ of mine, Steve—”

“You take that back, I’m an  _ excellent _ wife.” Steve crosses his arms and frowns up at Bucky. “I am Eliza goddamn Hamilton, best of wives and best of  _ fucking _ women—”

“Great. Then  _ stop singing Angelica’s part.” _ Bucky pokes him in the forehead again, ignoring Steve as he growls. “That’s Wade. Wade, can you handle it?”

Wade flutters his eyelashes, as he’s been doing for the past goddamn twenty-four hours since his dramatically choreographed rendition of ‘Satisfied’ won him the okay from Bucky, who’s somehow become their  _ Hamilton _ director by right of the Chernow biography. “I’m never satisfied,” he purrs, sending half of the room into disturbed shivers.

“Great. Also, stop that.” Bucky points at the rest of the circle; Brock rolls his eyes and elbows Jack, who’s been singing along quietly with the chorus roles and otherwise ignoring them, but everyone else nods. “Now, just in case anyone else  _ doesn’t know their role—” _

“Aw, c’mon, Bucky.” Steve groans, leaning his head into Bucky’s side tiredly before Bucky elbows him back up. He needs to stop drinking here; no matter how many times he tries to prove Bucky wrong when he calls Steve a lightweight, the sad truth is that he’s probably right.

“No. Up. Now, role call.”

“It’s my turn to be Hamilton.” Bruce nods to himself.

“Burr.” The entire house has basically simultaneously agreed that T’Challa has the role of Burr on hold indefinitely.

“Washington.” Thor raises his glass, nodding; he’s got the most forceful voice, even if he’s occasionally off-beat and off-key, and brings the most gravitas to the role.

“And Cameron, Scott, and Rhodey are the ensemble.” Cameron, who’s never asked for a main role, nods contentedly and smiles sheepishly; Rhodey, who is to date the only one who can rap Lafayette’s part in ‘Guns and Ships’ at full speed but tragically is not featured in ‘Non-Stop’, smirks. Scott, who’s next in line to be Hamilton, sighs. “Which leaves  _ you, _ Steve, as—”

“Eliza, I know, I know.” Jesus, he  _ gets it. _ “Can we start singing already?”

“All of you, shut up!” Everyone starts at the sudden exclamation from a forgotten corner of the room; Pepper, who truly deserves better, rubs a hand over her face with a harried look as the men turn to face her. “I’m glad you’re having fun, but we can’t air any of this without negotiating for the rights or paying royalties, so please, for the love of God,  _ do this on your own time and let us get our damn footage!” _

“...Well, if you didn’t make us  _ wait _ for so long beforehand—”

“To talk about the drama in the house, not to sing a musical!”

“I think I’d rather sing the musical,” Bucky says sweetly, which is the closest Bucky’s gotten today to acknowledging the elephant in the room. From his position on the loveseat, Brock scowls. “Anyway, where were we?”

Thankfully, Pepper’s saved from any further brain damage by a knock on the door, which Cameron races to answer with an apologetic look in her general direction. Pietro, who’s been snickering quietly behind his camera for the past ten minutes, trails after him with his camera; both reappear before Bucky can start up the chorus again, Cameron with date card in hand.

“I found the date card,” he says, holding it up and wiggling it with a sheepish grin, fully aware of the fact that no particular finding was involved. He turns uncertainly to Pepper. “Uh, Tony Stark was  _ going _ to come in, but he was singing ‘Burn’, so I thought maybe you wouldn’t want to—”

“I am going to burn  _ him,”  _ Pepper growls out between clenched teeth before swiftly exiting the room. Steve wishes Tony luck, because wherever he is, he’s going to need it.

“Right. So, anyway...” After a perfunctory pause and a distant yelp that makes it pretty clear Pepper won’t be coming back anytime soon, Cameron just clears his throat and pulls out the date card. “Let’s see. Rhodey, Scott, Bruce, Steve, T’Challa, Jack, Wade, and Thor. Let’s make history. Sharon.” Cameron blinks at the card a second longer before his eyes widen.  _ “...Oh.” _

And then Steve realizes that Bucky’s name wasn’t called. Before he can turn to congratulate him, however, he feels Bucky tense beside him.

And then Steve realizes that  _ Brock’s _ name wasn’t called, either.

“...So.” Scott looks like he wants nothing more than to run out of the room, but Steve and Bucky are usually the ones who say what needs to be said and it’s probably a good thing neither of them are up to saying much of anything at the moment. “The next date’s either gonna be a one-on-one with Brock or Bucky, or it’s gonna be—”

“It’ll be a two-on-one.” Brock’s got his eyes trained on Bucky, shaking his leg as he glares. “Me and Barnes.”

“Well, then.” Bucky sighs, shifting so he’s straddling the armrest without taking his arm from Steve’s head. His tone is conversational, but reluctant. If Steve had to guess, it’s because he knows that any polite discussion he tries to make is about to be taken out back in an alley and shot. “May the best man get the rose.”

“Only one man between us, and it’s me.” Brock grins with his teeth, and oh, wow, what a gleaming, perfect target for Steve to aim his fist at. “I’ll get the rose, though. Don’t you worry about it.”

“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”

Bucky scratches lightly at Steve’s scalp, a silent reminder to  _ stand the fuck down, _ and Steve bites his tongue to make sure he doesn’t say anything else even as Brock directs his attention over to him. “I mean, let’s be honest—he’s had a cock up his ass. How hard can it be to send him home once Sharon knows it?”

It’s only because Bucky grabs a fistful of Steve’s hair and yanks that Steve doesn’t physically stand up and physically remove the arrogant smirk from Rumlow’s face, because  _ who the fuck says that?!  _ “Who the  _ fuck—” _

“Steve, don’t.” Steve feels more than hears Bucky sigh above him, making a frustrated noise somewhere in the back of his throat. He waits, but Bucky doesn’t say anything else; when Steve glances up, Bucky’s got his gaze trained determinedly on a far point on the wall, cool and detached. It’s a little terrifying, given how engaged Bucky usually is.

“I’m gonna look  _ forward _ to fucking you over,” Brock continues, oblivious to the cameras moving around them and the way most of the other men are looking to Bucky for their cues.

“Oh, I’m sure you will.” Bucky draws in a deep breath, looking around him and wrinkling his nose when he realizes Pepper still isn’t there. Steve draws in his own breath in tandem, closing his eyes and reminding himself that this is Bucky’s fight and that if he punches Brock  _ now, _ he’s going to get booted off and then no one will be around to punch Brock  _ later _ after Bucky has sent him home and no one is around to film them. “Maria? I’d like to go now.”

“Uh.” The producer glances over to her compatriots helplessly. “We probably want you to stay here until Pepper—”

“Cool, thanks.” Bucky hops off the armrest, jerking his head and sucking his teeth as he smiles. “Steve? C’mon, let’s go.”

A peaceful, drama-free week. Steve glares at the producers, jaw clenched, until they clear a path for Bucky to walk back to their room. That’s  _ all he fucking wanted. _

* * *

**ITM: Brock Rumlow**

“It’s about time I got the chance to tell Sharon about Bucky’s dishonesty, and what better place than the two-on-one? I’ve been nothing but honest with her the entire time—if she trusts me too, she’ll see who the better person for her is.”  _ [He smiles.] _ “I’m actually looking forward to the two-on-one, because I’m looking forward to sending that fucker home.”

* * *

**ITM: James “Bucky” Barnes**

_ [Bucky has a carefully neutral expression on his face.] _ “Look, do I have anything personal against Brock Rumlow? No, I don’t. Do I think he’s a colossal homophobic fucking asshole? You bet.”

_ “Do you think you’ll get the rose, or do you think you’ll be going home?” _

“I don’t think—I mean, we’ve seen what Brock’s willing to— _ fuck.” [Bucky sighs, squeezing his eyes shut and running a hand over his face.]  _ “I don’t...dammit, Pepper, I don’t want to do this right now.”

* * *

**ITM: Steve Rogers**

“When  _ are _ you going to be done talking about it, then?”  _ [Steve’s got his jaw set at a stubborn angle, glaring mulishly somewhere just above the camera.]  _ “I can’t believe I ever expected better from you, but honestly, I fucking expected better from you.”

_ “You seem unusually angry about this, Steve.” _

“Of course I’m fucking angry! You’re exploiting his sexuality, outing him to the entire fucking country without asking him, putting him in purposely uncomfortable situations when he’s  _ said _ he doesn’t want to get involved, pushing him to react in a way that’ll make him look bad on television so you  _ know _ every homophobe in the goddamn Bible belt’s gonna run with  _ that _ until the cows come home—”

_ “And this has nothing to do with the fact that he might go home?” _

“Of  _ course _ he’s not fucking going home.” _ [Steve crosses his arms, sitting back and turning to speak directly into the camera with a glare.] _ “Bucky Barnes hasn’t done a single damn thing wrong, and he’s one of the best people in the house. If Sharon sends him home on that two-on-one date over Brock fucking  _ Rumlow, _ I’ll quit the damn show myself, I swear it.”

_ “I—what?” [Pepper sounds lost for a second.] “You feel that strongly about this?” _

“If she sends Bucky home over Brock? Definitely.” _[Steve rolls his eyes.]_ “If Sharon sends Bucky home over Brock, she’s not the woman I thought she was, and she’s not the person I want to be dating. If someone like _Bucky,_ who’s so—he’s—if someone like Bucky can go home on that two-on-one, then what business do I have being here?”

* * *

**ITM: Thor Odinson**

“Having gotten to know the people in the house, I think I can safely say we would all rather see Brock go home than Bucky.”

* * *

**ITM: Jack Rollins**

“No, I hope Bucky goes home. Frankly, I don’t feel entirely comfortable sleeping in the same suite as him.”  _ [He rolls his eyes.] _ “I’m not gonna  _ say _ that, though, not to any of the men here other than Brock. They’ve made their stance pretty clear, and they don’t seem to care about what Brock says. Either way, this two-on-one’s gonna be a real shitshow.”

_ “You think so?” _

“Well, I know Brock’s raring to go.”  _ [He smirks.] _ “Brock vs. Bucky...well, whatever happens, one of them’s sending the other home. Better for the rest of us, you know?”

* * *

**ITM: Wade Wilson**

_ [Wade whistles the ascending scale to ‘Ten Dual Commandments’, staring alarmed and wide-eyed into the camera.] _

* * *

“How about the red one?” Steve holds up the hanger by his chest, watches Bucky’s expression actively switch from imagining ripping Steve’s closet into pieces to  _ contemplating  _ ripping Steve’s closet into pieces, and immediately puts it back down. “Oh, come on, that one’s not  _ bad—” _

“At this point, you might as well wear that fucking bathrobe to tomorrow’s date.” Bucky rolls his eyes, waving Steve away again. “You think I’m joking, but I’m not. This hotel’s got fancy fucking bathrobes.”

Steve fiddles with the hem of the bathrobe he’s wearing; it is indeed black, and the texture’s discrete enough from a distance. He and Bucky _ did  _ wear suede to the last rose ceremony, and if he puts a tie on underneath with a dress shirt, it could almost be—

“Are you  _ considering  _ it?!”

“Of course not!” That’d just be absurd, not when Steve has  _ perfectly good suit jackets _ that Bucky’s vetoing. Steve regrets ever giving him executive power. “I’ve learned by now that when you say you’re not joking you’re probably joking _ , _ Bucky, I’d never—”

“That bathrobe deserves fucking better, you fucking—oh my God, you were thinking about it.”

He was  _ imagining  _ it, there’s a difference. “We wore suede at the last rose ceremony!”

“Suede is not—Steve, do you think that bathrobe is made of  _ suede?!”  _

“No.” They’re both fabrics, though, and if Bucky’s follow-up question is ‘what is the difference’ Steve doesn’t trust himself to come up with a concrete answer. “...You gotta admit, though, this bathrobe’s actually  _ less _ shiny than the suede—”

“There are  _ bathrobes _ listening, Steve, you’re going to  _ traumatize them.” _ Bucky grabs Steve’s pillow, shoves it over his head, and then immediately winces when he gets a good sniff of it and instead hurls it in Steve’s general direction. They’ve  _ got _ to get that changed. “Take the damn thing off, you don’t deserve him.”

“Him?!” There are probably better aspects of the argument to isolate, but Steve’s not sure he can come out on top in a conversation about fabrics. “Why are you so sure this one’s a him? Bathrobes can be hers!”

“Yeah, well, this one’s a him. And now  _ he’s _ gonna have issues for the rest of his life, so good job. And toss me back that pillow.” Steve bends over and scoops up the pillow, lobbing it toward Bucky only for Bucky to snatch it out of the air and hurl it right back at Steve. “What’s with the dress code for this one, anyway? What kind of group date could possibly require full formal attire?”

“We  _ are _ in Washington D.C.” It’s pretty slim pickings between the two of them, but Steve eventually fishes out a purple undershirt from Bucky’s suitcase and a tie from his own, holding them up and turning toward Bucky. “Maybe we’re gonna take a field trip to Capitol Hill or something...”

“I don’t know about that, it’d probably just be easier for them to take you guys out back and dismember you directly instead of going to the trouble.” Bucky rolls his eyes as he gets out of bed with a loud groan, stumbling sleepily over to Steve and ripping the shirt and tie right out of his hands. “Also, that purple is hideous and that tie’s too thin, it’s gonna make your head look stupid.”

“The purple is  _ your _ shirt!”

“No, that doesn’t seem like me.” Bucky tosses the purple shirt resolutely into Steve’s suitcase before slamming it closed, turning to his own and ignoring Steve’s expression of outrage. “You’re gonna want something that stands out without being too terribly flashy, because—you know, you’re you. Hm...” He pulls out what Steve recognizes as one of his own checked shirts and a red woven tie, holding them next to each other before nodding and holding them up to Steve’s chest. “You and Thor are about the same size, right? See if you can get your hands on that navy suit jacket of his.” 

“Anything else?”

“Yeah, stop being a baby and put some product in your hair.” Bucky takes a step back, frowning at Steve as Steve stands still and tries very hard not to shoot back that Bucky does enough with his hair for the both of them. “Also, a tie clip.”

“Great.” Steve shrugs and relaxes his shoulders. “Where the hell am I getting a tie clip.”

It’s hard not to take offense as Bucky rolls his eyes heavenward, muttering darkly under his breath. “God, even when you dress like a  _ grandpa, _ you can’t do it properly.” He shakes his head, raising his voice again. “I’ll swing by Bruce’s and grab one for you later tonight, grandpa”

Steve considers telling him off, but honestly, he’d take grandpa over dad at this rate. “See, this is why you’ve gotta send Brock home this week.”  _ Part _ of the reason, anyway, aside from the fact that Brock Rumlow is a walking amalgam of all the worst parts of humanity. “If you’re not around, I’m gonna start wearing orange pocket squares with bathrobes to rose ceremonies—”

“And the purple shirt, don’t forget that.”

“It’s  _ your _ fucking shirt, you douchebag.” Steve snorts, elbowing Bucky as he walks past him and takes a seat on the mattress. After the day they’ve had, they both deserve a year worth of naps and also a good deal of money to compensate for emotional distress. “Besides, if the bathrobe’s gonna cover the purple anyway—” 

“Steve.” Bucky goes to kneel on the floor in front of Steve’s feet, gauges the height difference, and switches tactics by squatting so he’s meeting Steve on eye level before putting both hands on his shoulders and staring into his eyes with an uncharacteristically serious expression. “We need to talk.”

“...Sure.” Steve raises an eyebrow. “Are you breaking up with me or something?”

“What? No!” Bucky scowls, digging his fingernails punishingly into Steve’s shoulders for a second before taking a seat next to Steve on the bed. “I’m trying to have a  _ serious discussion with you, _ you jerk!”

“Our relationship is plenty serious, fuck you.” Steve giggles as Bucky just scowls at him, punching him in the shoulder again before lying back on the bed. “Alright, alright. What’d you wanna tell me?”

“...Well, first off, that you’re a fucking asshole and a goddamn idiot.” Bucky pats the empty mattress space beside him and Steve lies down accordingly; Bucky sits up, propping his weight up on one arm so he can stare him in the eye again. “Second off, thanks for defending my honor or whatever back there—”

“—which you don’t have, don’t forget that.”

“—right, the nonexistent one.” Bucky rolls his eyes, switching arms just so he can properly flick Steve in the forehead before his stare turns serious once more. “Second off, thanks for doing that, but please never do it again because you’re a  _ fucking asshole and a goddamn idiot.” _

“Look, I—” Steve considers sitting up to better make his point, but frankly he’s gotta sleep soon anyway and it’s really comfortable. “I get that—it makes sense, taking the high road or not making too big of a deal or whatever. And I know you’re the most important person in this situation, and I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

“There’d better not be a ‘but’ coming up here, Steve.”

“...However—”

_ “Steven Grant!” _

“However!” Steve holds up a hand, pressing his finger briefly to Bucky’s mouth; Bucky falls silent, glaring murderously. “This is— _ someone’s _ gotta stand up to him and say something, especially since what he’s saying is going on television! Besides, if I make it clear that it’s just me, you could make sure you’re in our room or something...maybe the producers would switch the drama from you to me, if there—”

“Yeah, that’s why it’s  _ not _ happening, you fucking-asshole-goddamn-idiot!” Bucky shuts him up by putting his own hand over Steve’s mouth, flicking him in the forehead again on the way for good measure. Whatever Bucky’s been doing with his fingernails, every time he flicks Steve it’s like injecting the fear of God directly into his forehead; it hurts like a motherfucker. “We’re halfway through the show, Steve—there aren’t enough of us left for either of us to go picking fights,  _ especially _ not in front of the cameras! So please. Just once. For the love of God. Do  _ not _ start anything when they inevitably bring it up on your group date.”

“Listen, if this is about getting eliminated, I’m fine with it.” Steve catches Bucky hand before he ends up leaving a fingernail-shaped indent in his forehead, instinctively slowing his breathing so Bucky will match his pace the way they always did with him when he was younger. “If it’s actually making you stressed out for another reason I’ll stop, but if you don’t want me to put up a fight because you’re worried about  _ me, _ I’d rather go home having said something than stay here having let him smear shit all over the walls—metaphorically—without saying anything. I wouldn’t hold it against you. You  _ know _ that.”

“Wow, it’s almost like you’re not as transparent as a plate glass window.” Bucky, somehow preemptively reading Steve’s mind with his freaky vampire powers, flicks Steve in the head before he can start considering how to retort to being called  _ transparent.  _ “I  _ do _ know that, Steve, what a coincidence. I’m stressed out—and really, I want you to listen to me with your  _ ears _ and internalize it this time— _ because _ I don’t want you to go home!”

“...What?”

“Oh my God, you’re lucky you’re pretty. Actually, wait, no—your pretty came from human experimentation, so it’s still a byproduct of your stupidity.” Before Steve can find some way to protest, Bucky groans theatrically, clasping his hands over Steve’s sternum and dropping his head dramatically down on his chest. “I’m not saying a word—if I’m gonna be a real live bisexual out in the wild or whatever for the first time in this franchise, the moment I’m too aggressive or whatever they’ll pounce on it. You know as well as I do I’ve been complaining about Brock since the moment he swaggered in through the front door and ordered Red Bull and vodka in a fishbowl; if we get into an argument, they’ll have four weeks worth of low blows and shittalk to splice together and make me look like the pettiest fucking bitch—which I am, sure, but still. They’ve already proven they’re not above outing me. They’ll do it, and then every homophobe who hears anything about it will circlejerk about it for the next three years. I’m not saying a  _ fucking _ word.”

“...Yeah, so that’s why if  _ I _ say it instead—”

“And  _ you’re _ not saying a fucking word.” Bucky’s head snaps up, but the expression on his face is less fondly exasperated than Steve’s familiar with. “You fucking-asshole-goddamn-idiot  _ bastard. _ You’ve got something good going on here, a chance for an actual relationship with Sharon—”

“So do you, you know that, right?” Steve hears his own voice comes out uncharacteristically soft to match the inscrutable expression on Bucky’s face. Bucky keeps going without responding to him, although his face twists briefly.

“—and for God’s sake, you’re not going home when you have that. I’m not worth it—shit, I’d rather go home myself than take that away from you. I don’t think I could stand this place if you weren’t here, anyway.” Bucky chuckles humorlessly, his gaze focusing on Steve as he gets a contemplative look on his face. He bites his lip for a second, hesitating, but he doesn’t avert his steely eyes; there’s a quiet certainty in the twist of Bucky’s mouth as his eyebrows narrow, hands still resting comfortably warm over Steve’s heart. “That’s not a joke, you know? I know we make a lot of dumb jokes about that—or, y’know, a lot of dumb jokes period. But that’s not one of them, Steve.”

For a moment, the weight of Bucky’s gaze and the soft sincerity of his words feels like too much, like it’s crossing some sort of boundary; no one’s here purely for the right reasons, of course, because let’s face it, the show’s format is itself antithetical to the pursuit of romance, but hearing Bucky say so plainly that he’s here more for Steve now than Sharon...well, as stupid as it sounds, Steve’s a little scared of having something so important placed on him, because as amazing as it is and as much as he wants it, he can’t afford to fuck it up. It’s  _ Bucky. _

But it’s still Bucky, looking up at him without any apprehension—and the thing is, between the late nights and early mornings and being flung place to place like ragdolls and waiting around for nothing at all, between spending an hour with Sharon every week and hours with Bucky every  _ day, _ Steve thinks he might actually feel the same way.

“Yeah,” he says, voice steady. Bucky relaxes when he says it, smiling so hard his eyes crinkle, and Steve feels himself smile back almost reflexively as he nudges his leg absentmindedly against Bucky’s. “Yeah, I know, Buck.”

“Good.” Bucky’s soft smile blends seamlessly back into his trademark smirk between blinks; although it’s a lot more familiar, Steve finds himself mourning the loss anyway. “So shut up, Steve, and promise me you’ll let me handle this. It’ll all be over by the two-on-one, anyway; God knows Brock can’t keep his mouth shut worth a damn, so with any luck he’ll bring it up while Sharon’s there and I can take care of it all at once. Knocking Brock down a peg two days early is not worth jeopardizing what you’ve got going on.”

Steve opens his mouth to say something about how it is  _ too _ worth it, because every time Brock starts getting into things Bucky goes all glass-eyed and stoic and unresponsive and Steve  _ hates _ that enough to seriously consider going off, and Bucky’s as important to Steve as Steve is to Bucky and he needs to let him  _ know _ somehow even if he can’t get the words out right now, and Steve’s not bisexual himself but for some reason this stuff’s really starting to hit a deeply personal nerve, making him feel raw and exposed every time Brock so much as steps into a room.

But because Bucky’s worth it—more to the point, because Bucky  _ knows _ Steve and how his mind works—Steve shuts up and does what he hates doing most.

“...I will not get involved.”

Bucky, because he  _ knows _ Steve and how his mind works, arches an eyebrow. God, it’s terrible. Steve loves him. “Promise?”

“Yes, Buck.” And, because he is still a fucking asshole and a goddamn idiot, he ruffles Bucky’s hair before the other man can dodge him; Bucky rolls off him with an indignant squawk and an elbow to the gut.  _ “Ouch! _ Alright, alright, I’m serious! I promise!”

* * *

**ITM: James “Bucky” Barnes**

“No, see, here’s the thing.”  _ [Bucky runs a hand through his already-messy hair; his serious expression has changed his face entirely, morphing his general aura from one of laid-back charm to one of fierce, capable determination.] _ “It’s week five, and I haven’t had a one-on-one, right?”

_ “Yes...” [Pepper sounds hesitant, clearly unsure of where things are going; from the sound of it, they’ve already veered far off-topic into the territory of casual conversation.] _

“I’m not gonna get much further here.” _[Bucky cups his head thoughtfully in one hand, shaking his head as Pepper starts to argue.]_ “Don’t—no. Obvious frontrunners aside, I did my research, you know—I’m on a two-on-one, for Christ’s sake. No one who’s put that close to elimination is in a secure position, or it wouldn’t make for good television. There’s no _way_ I’m gonna win.” _[A quick smile flashes across his face; frustrated, wry.]_ “Besides, I’m not so sure I need to. There are—other people—here who feel a lot more strongly. I like Sharon, sure; I have a lot of fun with her, and if this weren’t...” _[He waves a hand in the air.]_ _“...this,_ yeah, I’d give it a shot, date her a few more months and see where we stand. But we’re here, and I don’t have a few more months. My fate’s sealed.”

_ “Bucky...” _

_[Bucky waits, but when Pepper trails off uncertainly, he smiles again.]_ “I know you can’t say that sort of stuff outright, but we both know it’s true, don’t we?” _[Whatever he sees in her face makes him shake his head with a smile and chuckle humorlessly.]_ “So, given all that...I don’t want anyone else here taking stupid risks on my behalf. Especially not if they could actually win.” _[He blinks, expression contorting briefly into something unreadable.]_ _“Especially_ especially not if I _want_ them to win.”

_ “You’re talking about Steve.” _

_ [His snorts and smiles, this time to fond exasperation.] “Steve. _ Motherfucker can’t keep his mouth shut to save his life, that’s what I’m talking about.” _ [Something occurs to him, he frowns, wagging a finger.] _ “I’m gonna watch this show, Pepper, and if you take that one out of context—”

_ “Yeah, I know.” _

* * *

**ITM: Steve Rogers**

“Going into this group date, I’m just gonna try and focus on my relationship with Sharon.”  _ [Steve’s expression is so serious and stony that it verges on pained.] _ “The drama in the house is definitely starting to boil over a little, and honestly, I think it’s getting to me. This week, I just need to refocus and get myself back into the right headspace.”

_ “Any idea why it’s hitting you so hard?” _

_ [Steve shakes his head, waving his hand.] _ “I mean, this late in, you’ve definitely made friends and rubbed people the wrong way. That’s just bound to happen, you know?”

_ “Nothing personal?” _

“I...”  _ [Steve frowns, rubbing his chin absentmindedly again.] _ “...You know, I don’t know. I’ve gotten close to Bucky, sure, but technically this doesn’t involve my life outside the show...”  _ [He trails off uncertainly.] _

_ “But?” _

“...But it kinda  _ feels _ personal.”

* * *

**ITM: Bruce Banner**

“It’s never a good idea to be a major player in the drama, from what I’ve seen of the show. We don’t have much time with Sharon; we shouldn’t be using our limited one-on-one time with her to talk about other people.”  _ [Bruce frowns, biting at his lip as he thinks.] _ “Hopefully, no one tries anything too drastic today...”

_ “What’s  _ your  _ plan for the date?” _

“I’m gonna keep myself focused on Sharon. Besides, without Bucky or Brock on this date, hopefully tensions don’t boil over too badly.” _ [He sighs, shaking his head; the look he turns to the camera is disapproving, almost accusing.] _ “And honestly? This isn’t the sort of thing that should be hashed out in front of ten other men and a camera crew, let alone on national television.”

* * *

**ITM: Sharon Carter**

_ [Sharon stands in front of a large banner reading “Bachelection 2019” on the steps of an old building. The wind’s blowing her hair into her face; she pulls it aside, revealing an anxious expression.] _

“I’m a little nervous for today’s date, honestly. I thought it’d be funny—you know, being here in Washington D.C. and all—to let the men ‘campaign for my heart’ and hold this debate or whatever. Softball questions...Tony wrote them, for Pete’s sake. I don’t know, I guess I’m just worried things might go south.”  _ [She shivers, fiddling with the light off-white scarf around her neck even as she gives her producer a wry look in response to his murmured comments.] _ “Because I’ve been through the show before, Phil, and I know what the mansion gets like by week five.”

_ [The wind stops briefly, allowing the producer to be heard over the camera’s microphone.] “...think it’ll go so poorly?” _

“All I’m saying is, this ‘debate’ idea of yours might not help matters.”  _ [She makes a face.] _ “Although I’m sure you guys have everything planned out already. Knowing you, you’ve already got some sort of inter-house drama planned out—especially with the two-on-one coming up.”  _ [She breathes out quickly through her nose, fixing her producer with a dry stare.] _ “Let me guess, something with Bucky and Brock?”

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W5D4_MR_C01_MC2.mxf**

_ [The only three men who aren’t on the group date—Cameron, Bucky, and Brock—sit as far apart from each other as possible. Occasionally, Cameron offers Bucky a sympathetic look; otherwise, the tension is palpably uncomfortable. Brock’s manspreading on the couch, shaking his leg and openly glowering at Bucky; Cameron’s curled up on the armchair opposite Bucky, blinking up at the lamp above them; Bucky sits almost abnormally upright, face entirely impassive and body entirely motionless.] _

“So.”  _ [Cameron finally speaks, eyes darting reluctantly towards a spot where a producer might, say, be motioning for them to do something.] _ “How do you guys feel about the upcoming date? Are you worried about if it’s a two-on-one?”

_ [Brock laughs, vindictive and a little too loud. Bucky just blinks, smiling thinly at Cameron.]  _ “I’m not looking  _ forward _ to the two-on-one, obviously, but I’ll be happy as long as I get to spend time with Sharon. Hopefully, our relationship’s strong enough she doesn’t send me home—”

“He’s not looking forward to it because he’s gonna get sent home. Ain’t that right, bitch boy?”  _ [Brock rolls his eyes, turning to Cameron with a roll of his eyes as if expecting agreement. Cameron simply sits up a little straighter, face hardening as Bucky’s does the same across from him.] _ “I’m telling you, things are gonna be better around here once I send your ass packing.”

_ [Bucky shakes his head, but otherwise remains entirely silent; Brock frowns, getting up and striding over to Bucky. Cameron shoots up immediately, taking a step toward Brock.]  _

“Did you  _ hear _ me? Got nothing to say—”

“Brock, that’s enough, sit down—”

_ [Brock grabs Bucky’s shoulder roughly and Bucky’s on his feet in an instant, using his elbow to shove the hand off with a dark glare.] _

“Don’t. Touch. Me.” _ [His voice is still even and cold as ice, even though his blank expression has been replaced by a terrifying scowl.] _ “Sit your ass down, Rumlow.”

_ [Brock steps back and sits down even as he scoffs; the other two men return to their chairs, tension clear in their stances.] _ “Yeah, or what’re you gonna do—”

_ [There’s a sharp knock on the door; Cameron jumps, shocked out of the moment, but the other two men continue to stare each other down silently. Cameron blinks at the two for a moment before reluctantly standing and backing out of the shot.] _

“I’ll just...go get that, shall I?”

_ [He bolts. Bucky and Brock glower at each other, but before either can say anything, Cameron races back with the date-card already open in his hands. He pauses when he skids to a stop before them, but when neither say anything, he coughs uncertainly and begins reading.] _

“Bucky. Brock.”  _ [Bucky nods when he hears his name; Brock simply begins shaking his leg again.] _ “Let’s shoot for the stars. Sharon.”

_ [Cameron tosses the card and envelope onto the coffee table, shooting a desperate glance toward the producers before reluctantly taking his seat again. Bucky rubs at the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes, sighing and turning away; Brock grins toothily at his apparent victory, sitting back again.] _

“Shoot for the stars. How about that, Barnes?”  _ [Brock turns to Cameron once more, seemingly unaware of how Cameron’s gaze jumps immediately to Bucky.] _ “Bet that’s the sort of sissy shit he’s into, he’ll be over the goddamn moon—”

“Excuse me.”  _ [Bucky stands so suddenly his chair shifts a few inches across the floor, strain obvious in his stance as he all but marches away. Brock watches him go, satisfied, and shrugs before turning to Cameron.] _

“So, now that he’s gone—”

“—I’m out.”  _ [Cameron stands with a quick frown and makes a quick beeline toward his own room at the other end of the house, leaving Brock to his own devices.] _

* * *

**ITM: Jack Rollins**

_ [Jack stands on the steps of an old building, dressed in a neat if unremarkable black suit and tie. He scowls, clearly displeased.] _

“A debate? What the  _ fuck _ am I supposed to do with a debate?”  _ [He scrunches up his face, shaking his head.]  _ “What does that even  _ mean?!” _

* * *

**ITM: T’Challa Udaku**

“I’m...glad...that a state senator came to read our first question.”  _ [He frowns to himself uncertainly.] _ “But shouldn’t he have better things to do? Drafting legislation? Writing the laws of the land?”

* * *

**ITM: Wade Wilson**

_ [Wade looks about ready to piss himself with laughter, grin wide on his face.] _

“Pepper, what is  _ up _ with the presidential impersonators? Am I the only one that’s a little disturbed? Who’s supposed to believe it’s actually Abe Lincoln and George Washington—the kids at home who watched us strip three weeks ago?”  _ [He cackles, turning aside as he actually doubles over in laughter before shooting upright again, eyes wide.] _ “And—Pepper, listen—it’s a fucking waste, is what it is—the one man literally  _ named after _ President James  _ fucking _ Buchanan isn’t here—no, wait, I have so many puns,  _ listen—” _

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W5D4_D_GDD_C01_QS.mxf**

_ [The men are on the steep white steps of what appears to be some sort of smaller monument; there are podiums lined up with placards for each of the men’s names, and a banner that reads ‘Bachelection 2019’ strung up between columns behind them. The weather of Washington is overcast and slightly windy, but that hasn’t stopped people from turning up—members of the audience mill back and forth in front of the camera. Up on the steps, the eight men chat amongst each other, all decked out in their suits and ties.] _

“You set up?”  _ [Wanda’s voice is clear beside the camera.] _

“Yep, camera’s good to go.”  _ [Pietro sighs breezily.]  _ “I still can’t believe they let those presidential goddamn impersonators help ‘judge’ this stupid fake debate.”

_ [Sure enough, the presidential impersonators sit beside Sharon and Tony at a long table at the very edge of the shot. Sharon appears to be laughing alongside the impersonators.] _

“Yes, well.”  _ [Wanda sounds amused herself.]  _ “Daisy and Leo are also in position, but Jemma’s still getting set up—hm. What are they doing up there?”

_ [While most of the men are still a little higher on the steps, Thor and Scott have descended the steps and taken their places at their side-by-side podiums. As Wanda and Pietro watch silently, the two begin speaking into their microphones, though they still maintain eye-contact while gesturing and reacting to each other’s statements.] _

“Probably just continuing their conversation—oh.”  _ [Wanda coughs as static crackles briefly.] _ “Alright, we’re good. I’m going to try the speakers. May wants a sound check.”  _ [There’s the sound of fiddling metal.] _ “Podium mics on in three, two—”

_ [Abruptly, Thor’s voice comes booming loudly over the speakers.] _

“—MAGINE WHAT WILL HAPPEN WHEN YOU TRY TO TAX OUR WHISKEY?”

_ [The entire crowd shuts up and turns toward the men; the remainder of the contestants also turn to stare at Scott and Thor as Scott picks up with Hamilton’s verse, seemingly unaware that their words are now being broadcasted rather loudly.] _

“THOMAS, THAT WAS A REAL NICE DECLARATION. WELCOME TO THE PRESENT, WE’RE RUNNING A REAL NATION—!”

_ [Scott, who turned to gesture out at the assembled company on the final word and emphasize his point, freezes mid-motion. Thor whips his head around too, although he simply smiles buoyantly and nods at the staring masses. Scott regains himself, coughing into his mic and readjusting his suit.] _

“...As you were.”

_ [As Scott practically flees his podium, grabbing Thor’s arm and dragging him forcibly back up to the rest of the laughing men, Wanda can be heard speaking faintly.] _

“...Well.”  _ [Her voice cuts in and out through Pietro’s hysterical laughter.]  _ “The mics work, at least.”

* * *

Over the course of Steve’s life, three separate people have threatened to permanently plaster the phrase ‘just because you  _ can _ do it doesn’t mean you  _ should _ do it’ onto his forehead on three separate occasions. Those three people are, in chronological order, his mother, Sam, and Bucky; Natasha skipped the extra step and went straight to giving him a temporary tattoo while he was in the hospital for...reasons, and most other people assume that he’s got enough self-preservation to avoid repeating whatever he did the first time. Those  _ fools.  _ His  _ real _ friends understand that he doesn’t know the meaning of the word, which is probably why they threaten to browbeat it into him him on a bi-annual basis.

This show is teaching him so much. 

“Just because they  _ can _ do this doesn’t mean they  _ should _ do it,” Steve stage-whispers to Wade as Thor leans into the microphone on his podium. They’re lined up on the white stone steps of a building that’s probably supposed to be reminiscent of the Lincoln Memorial, but thankfully society hasn’t reached a point where this reality show would  _ actually _ be able to shut down the Lincoln Memorial for filming. “If I  _ wanted _ to, I could...I don’t know, leave right now and go do a pound of crystal meth on the front steps of the White House before crashing a Ferrari.”

“No, you couldn’t,” Wade shoots back automatically. On the other side of the stairs, Thor says something charming about how yes, the lady is always right; if the sizable audience of middle-aged women is any indication, it goes over incredibly well.

“...I could if I wanted to.” Part of Steve twinges, wondering what it would be like if he actually _ did,  _ because proving people wrong and also anything would be better than standing here playing along with this weird politically-themed version of The Dating Game. All the other parts of Steve yell at him about how terrible of an idea this is and to shut the fuck up, while the part of Steve that sounds suspiciously like Bucky just laughs hysterically. “But that’s not my point. The point is that I could. But that doesn’t mean I  _ should, _ because that’s a dumb idea. Just like this.” He jerks his head towards Tony Stark, who’s standing at the bottom of the steps with a microphone with a shit-eating grin while he asks Rhodey what his idea of a perfect date with Sharon in Washington D.C. is. “This is a dumb idea. This is stupid.”

“About as stupid as snorting a pound of crystal meth on the front steps of the White House before crashing a Ferrari.” Wade nods sagely, wincing in sympathy as Rhodey says something non-committal about a dog park and Sharon’s dog. Not a bad idea, actually. Steve’s always wanted a dog himself.

“...Wait a second. You  _ snort _ crystal meth? As in, shoving literal solid rocks of drugs up your nose?”

“And this is why you couldn’t do it.” Wade rolls his eyes, like snorting methamphetamine is the most obvious thing in the world. “You  _ crush _ it, obviously, and then you—”

“Let’s go over to our All-American Golden Boy!” Tony coughs aggressively and turns his attention to Steve, who takes his hand calmly off his podium microphone and prays that it doesn’t pick up on the fact that Wade is still blithely educating him about the best way to take meth through the rectum. Steve does his best to smile charmingly, which all things considered is hard to do as Wade keeps waxing poetic about butt bumping; at this point he can only assume Wanda’s found some way to shut off his microphone, which officially makes her the second-most capable person on set other than Pepper Potts. “Steve Rogers! Our moral compass, our straight shooter, our dream daddy—”

Again with this shit? “Just because you  _ can  _ call me that doesn’t mean you  _ should _ call me that—”

“—oh Captain, my Captain.” Tony finishes with a flourish, talking right over him; probably good for his image, in the long run. “Now, we both know that honesty and transparency are important for Sharon. Tell us, Steve—as a man who personifies those traits, do you think these values are reflected among the other men in the house?”

Somewhere in his head, the part of Steve that sounds like Bucky Barnes starts up an active fight with the part of Steve that was earlier advocating crystal meth and rebellion over whether or not to start roasting Brock like it’s Cabinet Battle #2.

But Steve is a man of his word. More importantly, Steve trusts and respects Bucky enough to grit his teeth, smile, and count to ten backwards while thinking about big, friendly dogs with soft fur and dumb faces. Huh.  _ Should _ he consider getting a dog when he gets back to Brooklyn?

“Honestly? Yeah, I think we’re all taking our relationships with Sharon really seriously.” That’s the truth, at least—he doesn’t think he has it in him to tell flat-out lies. The part of Steve that sounds like Bucky Barnes breathes a near-tangible sigh of relief, which makes him feel better. “I feel the guys who are left are all here for the right reasons, and we’re all being open and honest with her about who we are—”

“Yeah, gonna have to stop you right there.” Tony rolls his eyes and turns away from him; Steve’s pretty sure the implication is that his answer is  _ predictable, _ and he’s about to say something else in outrage before he remembers that people are watching and for some reason they’ve slapped a very strange good-boy image onto him, so he listens to the parts of him that sound like Sam and Natasha and keeps his damn mouth shut. Sharon and a large swath of the crowd are nodding approvingly, at least, so that’s something. Fake-Lincoln tips his stupidly tall top hat in Steve’s general direction as Tony grins again. “Jack, you seem to have a reaction to that question, so why don’t I pose it to you? Do you have something you’d like to say?”

On Steve’s other side, Jack’s so-called ‘reaction’ is manifesting itself as a very viscerally disgusted glare. All the parts of Steve simultaneously begin screaming like banshees in warning.

“Yeah, I’ve got something to say.” Jack twists the microphone at a ninety degree angle and leans over so he can glare directly at Steve as he speaks into it; Steve instinctively stands straighter and feels his own face begin taking on a pretty obvious  _ reaction _ of his own. “I know  _ I’ve _ been honest and transparent, but I’m afraid I can’t say the same for my fellow competitors. There are certain people in the house who everyone  _ knows _ are here for the wrong reasons, but they’re getting away with it because no one’s got the stones to tell it like it is.”

“You seem very sure about this, Jack.” Tony doesn’t sound gleeful, per say, but—well, he’s definitely earning his paycheck. Steve suddenly realizes, with alarming certainty, that they’ve both been played on this one; the producers have got them right in the palms of their hands. “Any people in particular?”

Jack just sneers, turning back to Tony. Around them, the other men are shifting uncomfortably—except Wade, who’s wearing a particularly aggressive ‘well-fuck-you-too’ smile. “They know who they are, and if they don’t  _ out  _ themselves already—” And wow, would you look at that, suddenly Steve’s grinding his teeth together. “—then they’ll get what’s coming to them.”

The part of Steve that apparently does meth and crashes Ferraris yeets himself into Steve’s vocal chords  _ so fast, _ vibrating with righteous fury and ready to fuck all the shit up. “Is that a  _ threat, _ Jack?”

“Hell yeah, it is.” Jack cocks his head, jabbing a finger in Sharon’s direction; it’s hard to tell from a distance, but her expression seems to drop. “That woman’s heart has been played with enough, and she deserves better than those—those degenerates who want to waste her time.” Luckily enough for him, Jack turns back to address the crowd at large before Steve actually bitch-slaps him like a soccer mom because  _ fucking ‘degenerates,’ really?! _  “There are people in the house who are putting on facades, and if Sharon saw who they really were, she’d be  _ disgusted.” _

“Shut the—” Shut the  _ fuck _ up, is what Steve wants to say, but he promised Bucky he wouldn’t get himself into trouble and cussing someone out will probably get him into trouble, no matter how sweet and cathartic and justified and beautiful and emotionally fulfilling it’ll be. It’ll be  _ so _ emotionally fulfilling, whispers the part of Steve that wants to crash Ferraris.

“Not so fast, I’ve still got something to say—”

“Look, I think there’s just been some stuff said that’s gotten a little out of hand,” Bruce cuts in, probably because he’s realized he’s the only one who  _ can _ cut in without danger of escalating tensions further. “I don’t know who he’s talking about, but—”

“Actually, I think you do.” Jack leans into his microphone again, grabbing the podium and gearing up for another tirade. “I think  _ all _ of you do, and it’s despicable that I’m the only one here who cares more about Sharon than protecting one of the other men in the house—”

“You’re damn right.” He’s pretty sure he hisses it under his breath, but from the way everyone’s turning to him, the microphone picked it up. Steve takes one look at Jack and his suddenly ridiculously punchable face and decides that, if he’s gonna do it anyway, he might as well do the verbal equivalent of driving a Ferrari full of meth into the White House. “You’re damn right I’m gonna stand up for the rest of the men in the house, because the  _ rest _ of us respect each other and our relationships enough not to undermine each other, because the  _ rest _ of us are some of the best people I’ve ever met, and they don’t deserve half the bull you’ve been putting him—them through, and...and.” Shit, he’s gotta dial it back. The Bucky Barnes in Steve’s head—his Shoulder-Bucky, if you will—is making it very clear that he is doing the exact opposite of what he promised non-Shoulder-Bucky he’d do, and Shoulder-Sam and Shoulder-Natasha are currently giving Ferrari-crashing meth-head Shoulder-Steve a thorough and comprehensive dressing down. Mothers are invoked. “I don’t know about the rest of my...fellow...candidates…” Christ, this is stupid. “But I don’t have a problem like that with anyone here; I think we’re all here today because we genuinely want to develop our relationships with Sharon, even you. If you think the rest of us are hiding something, then either say what you’re gonna say or stop stirring up drama.”

For a single awful second, Jack looks like he’s seriously contemplating outing Bucky—and if Steve is the one who makes that happen, Jesus, he’ll never forgive himself—but in the end he simply settles for standing down with a grimace. Somewhere inside him, all three Shoulder-Friends drag Ferrari-crashing Shoulder-Steve into a dark recess of his psyche as Shoulder-Steve wonders incredulously how he’s  _ backing down _ from this fight right now.

But Steve is a man of his word. More importantly, Steve trusts and respects Bucky enough to grit his teeth, smile, and count to twenty backwards while thinking of big, friendly dogs that are strong enough to knock him over and slobber all over his face—because this is Bucky’s fight, and this isn’t Steve’s place to speak because Steve _isn’t bisexual,_ no matter how weirdly personal he’s already admitted to Pepper it feels, and Bucky’s gonna send Brock home on their two-on-one date anyway and it’s going to be sweet and cathartic and justified and beautiful and emotionally fulfilling and Jack fucking Rollins can shove it _all_ the way up his butt and let it die there.

“Dude, you okay?” Wade breathes under his breath as Tony directs the questions back toward a thoroughly alarmed Rhodey.  _ “...Would _ crashing a Ferrari into the White House and doing a shit-ton of shrooms on Donald Trump’s front lawn make you feel better? ‘Cause I know a guy.”

What  _ would _ make him feel better is sending both Brock and Jack home, but sadly, Steve can’t do any of that. Somewhere inside him, Shoulder-Steve mourns for his loss.

* * *

**ITM: Sharon Carter**

_ [It’s clearly the night portion of the date; Sharon’s changed into a high-collared black dress with lace flowers along the front, and the room behind her is dimly lit with candles and flickering lanterns.] _

“Whatever was happening during the debate, it’s thrown off the atmosphere for the entire night. The guys are clearly all really uncomfortable about something in the house, but whatever it is, none of them seem ready to tell me.”  _ [She frowns.] _ “Clearly, it’s something serious. At this point, it’s gotta involve me, so I want to—I want to fix it as soon as possible, but for now I’m just in my head and I don’t have enough to figure it out. Everyone’s on edge, and it’s getting to me.”  _ [She sighs, shaking her head.] _ “Either way, the date’s a wash. No one’s in the mood for anything remotely romantic, not after the day portion.”  _ [As Sharon closes her eyes, clearly lost in thought, a crease appears between her eyebrows as she huffs.]  _ “But if it’s something that involves me...and it’s bothering everyone so much...I’d like to figure it out, so why is nobody  _ telling _ me anything?”

* * *

**ITM: Thor Odinson**

“No, none of us are going to tell her.”  _ [Thor raises an eyebrow, his posture completely relaxed, shrugging his shoulders even as the producer says something incredulously from somewhere behind the camera.] _ “Because Bucky asked us not to, obviously. He asked that we let him handle this in his way, in his time, and we’re honoring his request. This is his battle, after all. If he wants privacy, we’ll give him that much. No one here wants to make a spectacle of this.”  _ [He gives the camera a meaningful look, inclining his head.] _ “No more of a spectacle than it already is, at least.”

* * *

**ITM: Steve Rogers**

“Today, it feels like I took a step back in my relationship with Sharon.”  _ [Steve runs a hand through his already-messy hair, sighing dejectedly and leaning his head back.]  _ “Ugh. That’s my fault, though. I couldn’t relax and just spend time with her today—I’m just not in the right mindset.”

_ “Yeah, you got a little heated during the debate.” [Pepper’s voice chimes in off-camera.] “Why don’t you elaborate on how you were feeling during—” _

“There was the debate, sure, but...”  _ [Steve plows on, as if he hadn’t heard Pepper at all; he seems lost in thought.] _ “I think it’s the thought of the two-on-one. Either way, I can’t get out of my head.”  _ [He frowns to himself, shifting periodically as he bounces his knee nervously off-camera.] _ “I’ll have to sit down and talk to her before the rose ceremony, hopefully sort things out.”

_ “Steve, are you listening to me?” _

“What?”  _ [He glances up, frowning.]  _ “Sorry, I just—are we done now? I’d like to get back to the house soon, I—I don’t know. I’m kinda worried.”

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W5D4_SR3_C19_MC1.mxf**

_ [The mounted camera is capturing a shot of a currently-empty side-room; a single lamp illuminates the area. The voices of Steve and Bucky ring faintly down the hallway from their shared bedroom, barely loud enough to be picked up by the camera.] _

_ “I mean, now I’m just gonna be disappointed if there  _ isn’t _ a James Buchanan impersonator at my date tomorrow.” [Bucky laughs.] _

_ “Do you even know what James Buchanan did? Like, as a president?” _

_ “...No.” _

_ [There’s the sudden sound of approaching footsteps; Brock Rumlow storms in from the far door, crosses the room in five large strides, and disappears down the hallway towards Bucky and Steve’s bedroom.] _

_ “Still, I’m sorry things ended up going to shit.” [Bucky pauses.] “Although I  _ did _ tell you you didn’t have to get into it—” _

_ “Yeah, well, you should’ve heard what he was saying about you.” [Steve’s voice goes hard and flinty in an instant.] “I swear to God, there was a part of me that wanted to storm right out of there and crash a—oh.” _

_ “Steve. Barnes.” [Brock’s voice is entirely monotone.] “What the hell are you two doing?” _

_ “Packing my stuff for the two-on-one tomorrow. In case I go home.” [Bucky sounds apprehensive; sure enough, Brock scoffs audibly.] _

_ “What, you can’t fold your clothes yourself?” _

_ “It goes faster with Steve.” [There’s the sound of fabric rustling.] “On account of my arm, and all.” _

_ “Sure, keep telling yourself that.” [Brock backs off; it’s not a topic he can win.] “Not here for you, anyway. Steve, can we talk about something real quick? In private?” _

_ “Anything you want to say to me, you can say in front of Bucky—”  _

_ “Actually, I’d rather not hear it.” [Bucky speaks stiffly.] “It’s fine, I’ve gotta get my books back from the guys anyway, I’ll just—” _

_ “This is ridiculous.” _

_ “I’ll get ‘em.” [Steve sighs, and there’s the sound of clothing rustling.] “Brock, are you coming or not?” _

_ [A door slams further down the hallway, and a few seconds later, Steve and Brock burst into the side-room. Steve is visibly tamping down his anger, and he’s still wearing the clothing from the group date; Brock crosses his arms as they turn to face each other. Neither makes any move to sit down.] _

“I’m here.”  _ [Steve spreads his arms.] _ “What the hell do you want?”

“I’m trying to do you a  _ favor, _ Rogers, you don’t have to act like you’re gonna fight me.”  _  [Brock rolls his eyes.] _ “Look, I’m planning on sending home Barnes, obviously, but on the off-chance I don’t manage, I wanted to warn you.”

“I—what?”

“C’mon, you can drop it.”  _ [Brock thumps Steve on the arm in a very ‘bro’ move; Steve blinks, not entirely registering what’s happening.] _ “What do I get from this, anyway? If Barnes is still here next week, that means I’ll be home. I’m trying to help  _ you.” _

“I.”  _ [Steve blinks again, then bristles, crossing his arms tightly and clenching his fingers into the fabric of his suit jacket.] _ “You’re trying to  _ help _ me.”

“Yeah. You’ve gotta be careful about people like that, you know?”  _ [Brock waves a hand in the general direction of the hallway.]  _ “I mean, the hugging last week, the obscene amount of time you spend together—I’m just saying, you don’t know if he’s trying to convert you or whatever.”

_ “...Convert.” _

“You’re making it too easy, letting him sleep in the same bed as you. Look out for yourself.” _[He scoffs, leaning against the back of the couch and bumping his elbow conspiratorially against Steve’s.]_ _“Bisexual._ That pervert’s here for one thing, and you’re making yourself too much of a target—he can do what he wants with himself but it’s not safe to let those people in here with the rest of us. Who knows what sort of fucked up shit he’d do if any of us let him—”

_ [Steve abruptly uncrosses his arms and yanks Brock’s arm off his shoulder, pushing him away with enough force that Brock stumbles back, putting a couple of feet between them.] _

“Dude, what the fuck?!”

“Shut up.”  _ [Steve’s voice is a low snarl, and his hands are clenched so tightly his knuckles are white; his expression is turned away from the camera, but whatever it is is enough to make Brock take another step back.] _ “I’m not your fucking friend. I’m not on your goddamn side.”  _ [He takes a deep, shuddering breath.]  _ “Get the  _ fuck _ out of here before I hurt you.”

“...Whatever.”  _ [Brock scoffs, but he gives Steve a wide berth as he shuffles around him; Steve doesn’t turn to look.]  _ “No need to get so defensive. Why are you taking it so personally, anyway? All the touching you two do—you sure you’re not gay yourself?” 

_ [He’s almost at the door when Steve turns suddenly on his heel, outraged.] _

“I don’t need to be  _ gay _ to hate homophobia, you goddamn bigot.”  _ [He’s holding himself in place by sheer force of will, his expression cycling through incandescent fury and incoherent incredulity.] _ “I’m fucking straight, if that matters so much to you—but even if I wasn’t, it wouldn’t change a goddamn thing. You’d still be going home tomorrow, and you’d still be a  _ fucking asshole.” _

_ [Brock snorts, which just makes Steve scowl more fiercely.] _ “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Rogers.”

_ [And with that he storms out, leaving Steve alone in the side-room.] _

* * *

**ITM: Scott Lang**

“Look, it’d be really hard to be as much of a douchebag homophobe as Brock Rumlow, but that’s not the only reason we’re doing this.”  _ [Scott shrugs a shoulder.]  _ “It’s because we  _ like _ Bucky. He’s reliable. He sticks up for us when you’re being assholes—no offense—and he says what needs to be said during staged conversations so we can get out of there and do our own shit again as quickly as possible. Oh, and he loans us all—ah, shit.”  _ [He looks apologetic for a second, then vaguely shifty.]  _

_ “He does what?” _

“He...helps us with the appalling lack of entertainment in the hotel.”  _ [Scott taps his chin for a second, thinking.]  _ “He’s like...he’s like the house mom, or something.”

_ “Not the house dad?” _

“Nah, that title goes to Mr. Rogers.”

* * *

**ITM: Wade Wilson**

“C’mooooooooooooon.”  _ [Wade’s got his head in his hands.]  _ “How many Man Chats do we have to have about this?”

_ “Cooperate with me here.” _

_ [Wade raises his head suddenly and dramatically, giving his producer a scathing look.]  _ “Not that I don’t enjoy all these wasted hours or anything, but there’s only so many times we can reword ‘no one cares that Bucky is bisexual and Rumlow is an asshole homophobe’ subtly enough for national television before I cut a bitch.”

* * *

**ITM: Brock Rumlow**

_ “How do you feel, going into tomorrow’s two-on-one?” _

“I’m actually excited for this two-on-one.”  _ [He smirks.] _ “I’m excited to send that little bitch packing.”

* * *

“It’s a beer, Steve, it’s not gonna hurt you.” Bucky knocks his can gently against Steve’s head, startling him briefly out of his thoughts; the crew’s packed up and everyone’s pretty much in bed, which leaves the two of them alone in the common area staring down the mini-fridge and its endless supply of cheap American beer. Given the sheer amount of emotional trauma and readily-available liquor, this show might just be designed to turn them all into raging alcoholics. “We’ve been drinking beer all week. The literal first time I met you you were drinking a combination of absinthe and triple sec. How bad can it possibly be?”

“It’s called ‘The Champagne of Beers,’ that’s how bad it can possibly be,” Steve grumbles, even as he pulls out a can of Miller High Life, turning it over contemplatively in his hands. The lights in the hotel room are turned down to a warm glow, glinting dully over metal. “Aren’t you supposed to be a bad boy? Why the hell is your favorite cheap beer the fucking  _ champagne of beers?!” _

“Mm. Listen.” Bucky smacks his lips together as he sprawls himself out on the couch as obnoxiously as possible; he’s clearly pleasantly tipsy, can swaying precariously in his hand as he gestures out over the coffee table. “I’m extra as  _ fuck, _ Steve. You know this about me. I drink mimosas every Sunday morning in a bathrobe with my goddamn microwave eggs, and I enjoy the fuck out of it. If I’m gonna drink a cheap beer, it better be the damn champagne of cheap fucking beer.”

“I hope you know this is a stupid level of pretentious,” Steve says with a sigh, throwing himself into the nearby armchair and propping his feet up on the table. Naturally, the moment Steve chooses another seat is the moment Bucky swings his feet off the couch, leaning over and putting his beer down on a coaster; he’s wearing a grey shirt of Steve’s that he’s already decided on for the date tomorrow, and it’s currently unbuttoned all the way down and hanging loosely off his shoulders with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “I hope you know  _ you’re _ a stupid level of pretentious. Have you ever let the cameras catch you with anything other than a whiskey?”

“I let them catch me drinking scotch, sometimes.” Bucky winks, wiping a hand roughly over his mouth before transferring it straight into his messy hair. It’s hard to tell in the dim light, but sure enough, there’s more than a few drops of beer running down his neck. Steve can’t help but shake his head and smile as he watches him; really, the man’s a hot mess. “But at home I do whatever the  _ fuck _ I want.”

“And what is it you want, exactly?”

Bucky smirks for a second, effortlessly ruffled, and for a moment the dark look he sends Steve’s way is so deceptively dangerous in the lowlight that Steve feels a shiver run down his spine. “What I  _ want _ is for you to do as you’re told and drink that goddamn beer.”

Steve raises a single eyebrow and waits, because if there is one thing Steve never does it’s what he’s told.

“...Wine coolers,” Bucky admits with a magnanimous sigh, hoisting his feet back up on the couch again and breaking eye contact first.  _ Ha. _ Point, Steve. He blithely ignores the fact that Bucky probably knows his exact train of thought and definitely let him have this. “I miss wine coolers. I drink wine coolers because I’m as trashy as I am extra, and fuck the system, sugar tastes fucking delicious and anyone who claims otherwise is a dirty fucking liar.”

“I knew it.”

“I have a yard glass,” Bucky continues on blithely, humming and tilting his head further back over the couch’s armrest; his eyes are closed, eyelashes fluttering occasionally as his hair fans out over the blue fabric. “I won it. In a drinking contest, once.” He cracks a single eye open to look up at Steve, comfortably drowsy. “It has an engraving.”

Oh, boy. “Tell me.”

“...‘Hair up, sweats on, wine gone.’” Bucky honest to God  _ giggles, _ curling back up into the couch cushions and rubbing a hand over his face before tilting his head up to look at Steve with a helpless grin. It’s weirdly adorable, in the way a straggly alley cat is adorable. “Oh, God. You’re judging me, aren’t you?”

“You’re a  _ wine mom.” _ Steve giggles himself, feeling a little more of the tension from earlier drain out of him. “I can’t wait to tell all the cameras. Say goodbye to your street cred.”

“You tell a single soul and I’ll smite you down where you stand,” Bucky threatens lazily, flicking his wrist toward the coffee table as his eyes go half-lidded. “Now drink your fucking Miller High Life. Do it for me. Do it for the Vine.”

“Make me.”

Bucky whines quietly, making some half-aborted motion to get off the couch before his eyes drift all the way closed and he flips the bird somewhere three feet to the right of Steve’s chair. “What if I get sent home tomorrow, huh? You gotta let me see your face when you taste it, at least.” He cracks an eye open, stretching out on the couch and arching his back briefly as he grins up at Steve again.  _ “One last tiiiime...relax, have a drink with me. _ This could be the last time we get to see each other for, like, months. Are you really gonna be so mean to me?” 

“Yeah, sure.” Steve tilts his head back into the couch, closing his eyes. It’d be really easy to fall asleep here; the cushions smell better than their dumb pillows, and Bucky’s voice is low with sleep and the familiar drawn-out vowels of Brooklyn. He’s a comfortable kind of worn-out, all things considered. “You’re not gonna go home, Buck. No way in hell.”

“You’re gonna jinx it, you know.” The silence drags on for a moment, long enough that Steve nearly misses it when Bucky’s tone shifts from casual to contemplative. “...But seriously, what if I do?”

“Right, because Sharon’s gonna keep Brock for his loving nature and goodwill to mankind.” It takes a monumental effort to open his eyes again and try to meet Bucky’s sarcastic look, which is part of why it takes him so long to register that Bucky does, in fact, look seriously concerned instead of sarcastic at all. “...C’mon, do you really think you’re going home?”

“I—don’t know.” It’s the most hesitant Steve’s ever seen Bucky, curling defensively further into the couch, biting his lip as he thinks. “Not that I think she’ll keep Brock, necessarily, but—well. People have sent both contestants on a two-on-one home before.”

“...Yeah, but that’s if they’re  _ both _ terrible.”

“If you try to tell me that I’m not a drama queen, I’m gonna be personally offended.” Bucky’s lips twitch up briefly, his eyes flicking up to meet Steve’s for a moment before he closes them again. “I’m serious, though—I mean, we’re halfway through this dumb show and I haven’t had a one-on-one. It’s not like I think I’m gonna win—it’s pretty much between you and Thor at this point, I’d say.” He scoffs, turning to face the ceiling and grasping blindly for his beer; Steve nudges the can into his hand with one foot. “Both of you giant blondes with ridiculous muscles and megawatt smiles. Really, she’d do better with a golden retriever.”

Steve goes to make some outraged comment about how fuck you, he is ten times better than a golden retriever, except he’s not entirely sure that’s true. Golden retrievers are amazing. Steve makes a mental note to get a big, dumb dog the moment he returns to Brooklyn; clearly, this is something he needs.

“Point being, this could be—I don’t know, goodbye or something.” Bucky finishes off the beer with a loud sigh and tosses the empty can blindly over his head in the general direction of the garbage, but Steve thankfully intercepts and sets it down on the table before it can hit the door and wake up the rest of the house. “I mean. We’re friends, and you’re kinda somehow the best thing going on in my life right now—that’s not that sad, I promise, this show is the  _ only _ thing going on in my life right now—but...I mean, it’s gonna be different when we’re not rooming together and being forced to see each other 24/7, you know?” He tucks himself a little further into the couch, eyes still closed; Steve has the impression that they’d be having a different conversation if Bucky weren’t possibly buzzed and definitely burnt out from a week’s-worth of exhausting apprehension. “I mean.  _ You’ll _ try, because you’re a great person or whatever and the sun shines out of your ass in a somehow totally unironic way—”

“I hate you.”

“—but I’m kind of a garbage fire, Steve, I’m a fucking mess.” Bucky turns his head so he’s face down in the couch cushions, his voice coming out muffled. “If I get booted and you keep going to all these crazy places and end up, I don’t know, engaged or something, what then? What if this  _ is _ the last time we talk to each other, you know?”

For a second, Steve tries to picture it—and the thing is that it shouldn’t be hard, because his normal life has never  _ had _ a Bucky Barnes in it and he’s sure there  _ was _ a time before he brushed Bucky’s hair every morning and had his taste in clothing verbally assaulted every night, but somehow the thought of not having the man on the couch forcing shitty beers onto him fills him suddenly with such existential dread that it makes his blood  _ literally _ go cold, like all his limbs have simultaneously fallen asleep for a single moment. There’s the sudden urge to reaffirm that Bucky’s still real beside him—to grab his shoulder or nudge his arm or hell, even let himself get flicked by those devil nails in the forehead. 

There’s some sort of strange, stupid feeling welling up inside him; it’s the same feeling he’d had earlier with Brock, the frustration of being unable to put something he’s feeling into words because he doesn’t really know  _ what _ he’s thinking. All he knows is that it’s true—if Sharon sent Bucky home, Steve would leave himself, not just because he doesn’t know what he’s doing here if someone like Bucky can be sent home but because Steve’s not sure he  _ wants _ to have to deal with this enormous shitshow without him.

It’s weird. It’s stupid. Bucky’s somehow become the most important part of this dumb process, and he doesn’t know how. He’s not even sure he knows  _ why.  _ It just is what it is.

“Tell you what.” Steve leans forward, tapping the empty can against Bucky’s forehead until Bucky shifts his head up and peers up at him through the curtain of his messy hair with one bleary eye. “Promise me you’ll go to bed and do your damndest to stick around tomorrow, and I’ll drink your fucking Miller High Life to celebrate sending Rumlow home.”

“Steve.” Bucky turns back around, blowing hair haphazardly out of his face, and for a second Steve gears himself up to tell Bucky what he’s feeling, but in the end all he does is gaze up at Steve for a long moment before smiling tentatively and nodding. “...Fine. I’ll hold you to it, then.”

* * *

**ITM: James “Bucky” Barnes**

“Going into this two-on-one...” _ [Bucky ducks his head, biting down on his lip even as he smiles to himself.]  _ “I’m feeling surprisingly calm, actually.”

_ “You certainly seem more relaxed than you’ve been all week. Why is that?” _

“Earlier this week, I was feeling a lot more bothered about things, but not anymore. I have faith in Sharon; she’s fair, and she’ll hear things out and reach the best conclusion. Whatever that is, I think I can live with it.”

_ “And you’re not nervous at all? Are you worried about going home today?” _

“No matter what happens—whether me or Brock or both of us go home—I’ll come out of today knowing I did everything in my power to stay as true to myself as possible.”  _ [He smiles fondly to himself again, eyes distant.]  _ “But honestly? No, not anymore. I don’t think I’m going home today.”

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W5D5_MR_C26_MC1.mxf**

_ [The men are arranged in familiar Man Chat format, although from the expressions on most of their faces a large majority of them have largely checked out of the entire affair; Scott is wearing pajamas pants with cartoon ants and a rumpled shirt that proudly proclaims it to be five o’clock somewhere, while Wade is pouring tequila into his coffee accordingly. A producer off-screen coughs pointedly.] _

_ “Let’s try that again, shall we? What do you think of Bucky and Brock’s respective relationships with Sharon? Do you think they’re both here for the right reasons? Who do you think is coming home—” _

_ [Cameron interjects with a groan.] _ “We’ve been talking about this all week, can’t you give it a rest already?”

_ [Steve, who’s been bouncing his leg nervously and glancing over at the doorway where Brock and Bucky’s suitcases are sitting, abruptly snaps his head up and glowers defiantly toward the cameras and the producers behind them.]  _ “Bucky’s gonna be the one to come home.”

_ [A few of the men actively exchange wide-eyed glances. Thor shrugs his shoulders. The producers wait, but the silence drags on; no one has anything else to add. Finally, the producer gives a long-suffering sigh.] _

_ “...Fine. Get breakfast, clear your thoughts. We’ll regroup in an hour, and I want you to be ready to talk this time.” _

_ [The men nod, grouping off and scattering as the producers and crew begin chattering and going off in their own directions. As a few people pass in front of the camera, Thor stretches, stands, and taps a distracted Steve on the arm.] _

“If you’d like, we’re playing poker in the other room.”

_ [Steve shakes his head, offering Thor a wan smile before he returns to staring nervously at the suitcases by the door; Scott claps a hand on his shoulder comfortingly as he passes, and the two leave him to his nervous jittering as the men disperse.] _

* * *

**ITM: Jack Rollins**

“Look, I’ll say it: it’s nerve-wracking.”  _ [Jack sighs, rubbing at his chin.]  _ “No one’s really talking about it outside of the Man Chats, but most of us are waiting around wondering who’s gonna come back. Steve isn’t even going around making sure we’re all eating or whatever.” _ [He rolls his eyes.]  _ “And...well, we keep being called in to do Man Chats on random shit, which I’m pretty sure is being prompted by whatever’s happening on the date, and that just makes us  _ more _ curious. Seriously, what is going on over there?”

* * *

**ITM: Wade Wilson**

“I have the honor to be...your obedient servant.”  _ [Wade sings cheerfully, twisting his hand in the air with a flourish.]  _ “B-dot-Barnes.”  _ [He turns his head, doing the same with his other hand.] _ “B-dot...B-dot-Rum? Is that how it goes?”

_ “Isn’t this getting old for you guys yet?” _

_ [Wade snorts, shaking his head and putting his hands down.] _ “Speaking of rum, I’m gonna need to be a lot more wasted to deal with this.”

_ “What, the tequila in the morning wasn’t enough?” _

“Maria, I don’t think you understand.”  _ [He leans in dramatically, raising his eyebrows meaningfully.] _ “Someone’s gonna die.”

* * *

**ITM: Steve Rogers**

“Honestly? I just hope Bucky’s hanging in there okay.”  _ [Steve’s rubbing at his chin in a familiarly nervous motion; almost instinctively, he begins to chew at his thumbnail.] _ “I know he’s gonna make it back. He  _ has _ to. But between this week and last week, he’s been through hell and back. You guys  _ really _ aren’t making it easy for him.”  _ [He turns abruptly, shooting a harsh if distracted glare at the producer behind the camera.] _ “I just hope he’s not too stressed out by the entire situation.”

* * *

**ITM: James “Bucky” Barnes**

_ [Bucky’s standing on the second floor walkway of a building in a familiar long-sleeved grey shirt, practically bouncing on his toes with a smile that splits his entire face. There’s an outdated fighter plane hanging from the ceiling in the background behind him.] _

“I love you.”

_ [Pepper sounds distinctly amused.] “That’s a bit fast for our relationship, isn’t it?” _

“I don’t care. I don’t give a  _ fuck. _ I love you.”  _ [Bucky shakes his head, looking around him with unrestrained glee.] _ “I can’t believe you actually did it. You actually got me a date in the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum.”

_ “You seem excited.” _

“I _ am _ excited.”  _ [Bucky smiles at the camera, holding his hands out repeatedly and waving them back and forth at the airplane behind him.]  _ “This is the best day of my life. This is the only day that matters. It’s the  _ Smithsonian Aerospace!” _

* * *

**ITM: Brock Rumlow**

_ [He smiles grimly.] _ “No, I’m glad we’re at the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum today, because I’m ready to send Bucky on the next plane back home.”

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W5D5_D_TOOA_C11_MC.mxf**

_ [The camera’s set up to capture a small portion of the museum; Bucky sits alone at the table with his chair tilted precariously far back, nonchalantly humming a familiar Andy Grammer song as he reads the label on a nearby display. The grin slides off his face when Brock returns from his one-on-one time alone, pulling up a chair on the opposite side and sitting down with a smile. Bucky stops humming in favor of letting his chair tip forward again, meeting Brock’s smug look coolly. Neither says a single word for a long moment.] _

“Enjoy it while it lasts, Barnes.”

_ [Bucky nods once to himself, huffing out a quick, humorless breath without breaking eye contact.]  _ “You use your time wisely, Rumlow?”

“That rose is as good as mine.”  _ [Brock’s eyes go briefly to the rose, which is sitting innocuously on the table among the other decorative arrangements.]  _ “You’re lying to her, and you’re not here for the right reasons. I made sure she knew that—”

“Yeah, of course. Okay.”  _ [Bucky rolls his eyes, smile icy on his face.] _

“She’s with the producers now, but she’ll be here to pick you up soon.”  _ [Brock’s upper lip curls as he stretches his hand out, drumming his fingers on the table.] _ “Enjoy getting sent home, Barnes. I know I will.”

* * *

**ITM: Sharon Carter**

_ [Sharon frowns thoughtfully, juxtaposed in front of a dimly lit display in what appears to be one of the exhibit halls.] _

“The type of person Brock says Bucky is just doesn’t line up with my image of him.”  _ [She shakes her head to herself, running a hand through her hair; it falls effortlessly back over her shoulder.] _ “It sounds to me like he’s being purposely vague right now, and I don’t...hm.” _ [She turns to look at her producer.] _ “I’ll have one-on-one time with Bucky, obviously, but I want to know exactly what Brock’s accusing him of first. I don’t wanna start dragging out the mess without the full story.”

* * *

**ITM: James “Bucky” Barnes**

_ “How are you feeling right now, Bucky?” _

“Not good, honestly. Nervous, Pep.”

_ “You know the drill.” _

_ [Bucky sighs, but acquiesces.] _ “I’m...ha. Not too confident right now.”  _ [He tries for his usual grin.] _ “I...don’t know why Sharon’s taking Brock for one-on-one time  _ again _ before taking time with me, but she seemed kinda hesitant.”

_ “Do you think you’re going home?” _

“I’m...well, I’m always worried, obviously—you have to have a healthy dose of skepticism going into every rose ceremony, and this might as well be one—but today I’m doubting my relationship with Sharon more than usual.”

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W5D5_D_TOOSR2_C31_QS.mxf**

_ [Sharon and Brock are sitting together on a set of benches in an area that’s pretty clearly one of the space-oriented exhibits. Sharon sits stiffly upright, nodding to herself as Brock smiles and leans back, satisfied.] _

“So, if I’m hearing you correctly.”  _ [Sharon crosses one leg over the other, leaning away from Brock.] _ “Bucky’s not here for the right reasons because he’s been lying to me by being bisexual.”

“Well, he  _ says _ he’s bisexual, but we both know what that means.”  _ [Brock scoffs and shakes his head, missing the way Sharon turns suddenly to glare at him.] _ “No one else in the house was willing to tell you, but I thought you deserved to know what you’re getting into.”

“Well, you’ve certainly given me something to think about.”  _ [Sharon purses her lips, smiling tightly at Brock before abruptly changing the subject.] _ “You know, the International Spy Museum’s just a ten minute walk from here.”

_ [Brock smirks, shifting toward her on the bench.] _ “Yeah?”

“Yeah, you should think about checking it out sometime.”  _ [Sharon smiles a little more sharply than strictly necessary, but if Brock notices, he doesn’t take the hint.] _ “It’s pretty personal to me—my Great-Aunt Peggy, she’s got an entire profile in there. She was the one who inspired me to get into government work myself, actually.”

“She sounds fascinating.”  _ [He says it like he’s humoring her.] _

“Oh, she  _ is.” [She says it like she’s humoring him.] _ “If you ever go, keep an eye out for Margaret Carter. She’s the most kickass woman I’ve ever known—she worked her way up to become a high-ranking agent in the Strategic Scientific Reserve and helped take down an international weapons smuggling ring, all before she married my Great-Uncle Daniel.”  

_ [Brock raises an eyebrow, begrudgingly impressed.] _

“She stopped going on missions when she had my first-cousins, of course, but she still helped direct counter-terrorism and intelligence projects in Britain  _ and _ America.”  _ [Sharon continues, eyes narrowed with a smile as she watches Brock.] _ “She’s pushing ninety now, but there’re still a lot of important people who go to her for advice. She’s practically a legend; she’s actually been living right here in D.C. ever since Great-Uncle Daniel passed, right at the center of all the action.”

“Well, I’d love to go see the museum with you and hear more about her sometime.”  _ [Brock goes to sling his arm around Sharon’s shoulder; Sharon bats it away without blinking an eye, smile still sharp on her face even as Brock blinks dumbly down at her.] _

“She remarried a few years ago.”  _ [Sharon grins brightly, leaning in closer to Brock’s dumbfounded face.] _ “She wasn’t happy about the wait, obviously, but Great-Aunt Angie convinced her to hold off until it was legalized in America.”

_ [They blink at each other for one long, awkward moment; Sharon’s smile is so vicious it borders on a snarl, while Brock stares at her, uncomprehending.] _

“...Hang on.” _ [He recoils, jerking away from her suddenly, face cycling between incredulous horror and red-faced rage.] _ “Your Great-Aunt—”

“—is bisexual, yes.”  _ [Sharon crosses her arms, standing so abruptly that Brock nearly falls off the bench.] _ “Just like Bucky—who, not that it matters, told me he was bisexual from the very beginning. I didn’t care.” _ [She glares down at him, tilting her chin up and breathing out sharply.]  _ “I  _ am _ sorry, though.”

_ [Brock looks at her warily, but when she doesn’t elaborate he takes the bait.] _ “Sorry for what?”

“That I gave you the slightest impression I’d agree with your homophobic rhetoric.”  _ [She shakes her head, incredulous and angry herself.] _ “I can’t believe  _ this _ is what everyone’s been on eggshells about this entire week—if I’d known, I would’ve sent you home Night One.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not just your homophobia.”  _ [Sharon glances over to the cameras, clearly annoyed.] _ “It’s the unapologetic way you approached this entire situation and the entitled self-satisfaction you’ve been radiating the entire time you told me about Bucky’s quote-unquote lies. That’s not the type of person I want to be in a relationship with, not by a long shot.”  _ [She looks over again, scowling now.] _ “Phil, how much longer do I have to put up with this?”

_ [From off-camera, the producer sighs.] “Run on ahead and tell Pepper to get an ITM before you start one-on-one time with Bucky. Christine and I will wrap up things here.” _

_ [Sharon nods firmly and storms away, clearly still pissed off with the entire situation. As Brock sputters and takes on a hue resembling beetroot, the camera shifts slightly on Pietro’s shoulder as he high-fives his sister with a quiet laugh.] _

* * *

**ITM: Sharon Carter**

“Look, people can think what they want to think. That’s their problem, not mine.”  _ [Sharon looks visibly outraged, overtaken by quiet fury.] _ “But if people like Brock Rumlow want to find approval, they can do it somewhere far from me and my season. What does that say about me and my relationships, that he thought I’d send someone home because of their sexual orientation?”

_ “It’s not your fault, necessarily. You know as well as I do, a lot of things happen in the house when the lead isn’t there.” _

“Sure, but that’s the sort of thing you should know  _ before _ you start dating this seriously.” _ [She’s clearly still troubled, but she shakes her head and lets it slide.] _ “It doesn’t matter. He’s gone now, thankfully, and Bucky more than deserves the rose after what he’s been through this week—not to mention that he’s taken the high road and tried to spare me from the drama.”

_ “So you’re going to give him the rose?” _

“Yeah. I’m going to make sure he knows that this really isn’t something that bothers me—I’m disgusted that Brock would even  _ say _ that.” _ [She sighs.] _ “And I’ll tell him about Great-Aunt Peggy; who knows? He might even meet her someday.”  _ [Sharon sits back, sighing, before abruptly smiling.] _ “You know, they’re pretty similar—I bet they’d get along really well.”

_ “Cycling back to the two-on-one—how do you feel about your decision, compared to your thoughts at the beginning of the date?” _

“Going into the two-on-one, I was worried I was going to have to make a tough choice and break someone’s heart.”  _ [Sharon takes a deep, calming breath.] _ “I was worried that I’d end up doubting myself—I respected both of the men a lot, and I wasn’t sure what I’d do. At least now, I know for sure that I made the right choice.”

* * *

**ITM: James “Bucky” Barnes**

“How does getting the rose over Rumlow feel?”  _ [Bucky pretends to think about it for a second before grinning.]  _ “I’m not gonna lie, it feels pretty good.”

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W5D5_MR_C58_MC1.mxf**

_ [Back at the hotel, the men are sitting in a circle on the floor of the main room playing Mafia around the coffee table. The lone exception is Steve, who has taken to sitting on the couch and doodling in a nondescript notebook; he’s very obviously distracted, his eyes wandering over to the suitcases sitting by the door ever so often.] _

“I heard a noise coming from that end of the room. It’s gotta be Rhodey.”

“That’s just Steve and his sketchbook.”  _ [Steve starts when he hears his name, but goes back to drawing when it becomes apparent no one’s actually addressing him.] _ “No, it’s gotta be Cameron; he was pushing to vote out Jack last round.”

“If anything, that makes him  _ not _ guilty—”

_ [T’Challa shuts up abruptly as Peter Parker opens the door. The scratching of Steve’s pencil stops as everyone watches tensely; Peter spares them a single apprehensive glance before picking up Brock’s suitcase. The men’s eyes follow his every move as he pulls up the handle, looks around one last time, and rolls it away. The door clicks closed behind him.] _

“...”

_ [No one else comes in. Bucky’s suitcase remains by the door.] _

“...”

“Wait, does that mean—”

“We’ve got ‘im, boys!”

“AMERICA, FUCK YEAH!”

“Someone pop a fucking bottle already!”

“Let’s get chocolate wasted!”

_ [The men jump to their feet, game forgotten; Scott rushes to the minibar to track down some alcohol as the men begin hooting and hollering, cheering like they’ve won the lottery. In the midst of it all, as Jack slips out of the room and into the hallway, Steve puts a hand over his eyes and smiles to himself.] _

* * *

**ITM: Steve Rogers**

“Honestly, I’m just glad we can move on from all this.”  _ [He’s sagging in his chair, palpably relieved.] _ “I’m looking forward to getting back to what’s important.”

_ “And what’s that?” _

“...Building my relationship with Sharon.” _ [He shrugs noncommittally.]  _ “Hopefully, we don’t have to deal with anything else like this—especially Bucky. If anyone’s earned a single week of peace and quiet, it’s him.”

* * *

It takes long enough that the group progresses from playing Cards Against Humanity while pleasantly buzzed off peach bellinis to collectively viewing in startled horror as Wade sorts the entire deck into the most horrifying combinations his monstrous brain can conceive, but Bucky finally stumbles in through the door five full hours after Brock’s suitcase disappears. They hear him before they see him; Bucky, being every bit as extra as he claims to be, makes his grand entrance by slamming open the door with his shirt unbuttoned down to his chest as he belts “SO, WHAT’D I MISS?” loud enough to potentially wake up the entire floor of the hotel, if they weren’t the only ones occupying the entire floor of said hotel. As it is, he’s only liable to wake up the producers and part of the crew, which he’s probably entitled to given the hell week he’s had.

He’s a fucking  _ asshole. _ Steve’s never been happier to see his ugly mug.

The eight of them respond with all the warm excitement of a pack of particularly destructive wolverines; Wade upends the entire deck and vaults over Scott, who’s starfished out on the floor, tackling him in a flurry of cards and empty beer cans. Thor pours more peach bellini into Rhodey’s old cup before offering it to Bucky; Bucky takes it with a nod of tired thanks while simultaneously extracting himself from Wade’s grip and fist-bumping T’Challa. He stumbles right over to the couch Steve’s sitting on, and that’s all the heads up Steve gets before Bucky tips himself over the armrest and collapses over all three cushions so his head lands firmly in Steve’s lap, spilling bellini all over the table and nearly crushing his goddamn dick to boot. It hurts, naturally, because Bucky is a fucking asshole and also the human head weighs ten pounds. Steve has still never been happier to see him, especially when he tilts his head back and meets Steve’s eyes with that signature lazy grin.

“So,” he says, hand already fiddling with the ends of Bucky’s hair. Whatever Bucky’s been forcing him to rub into it every fucking day, it’s working; his hair’s inexplicably softer than Sharon’s. “You got any tea to spill?”

“You know it,” Bucky purrs back, shaking his head a little so his hair fluffs out all over Steve’s lap. Steve, who knows he’s gonna be the one to have to comb it later tonight, sighs and mentally prepares himself for the moment his legs lose all feeling. “Maybe later, though; I’m fucking exhausted, and we’re gonna have to talk about this in front of a camera later anyway.” He lifts his head a little, glancing down at where the men have started gathering up the scattered cards and started up a proper game now that the waiting’s over. “Hey, can one of you fuckers deal me in next round?”

Wade begins throwing Bucky’s hand at him card by card until Rhodey and Bruce step in, the familiar chatter of the house picking up again now that the tension’s finally broken. Without Brock around, it feels comfortable again—finally, they can have a few days of goddamn peace before the general insanity of dating and inter-house drama pick up again.

“So, you didn’t go home, huh?”

“...No. No, I didn’t.” Bucky lets his head fall back onto Steve’s lap, smiling back up at him, indolent and smug now that the week’s basically done for him as he throws an arm over his eyes. He’s clearly too tired to do it himself, so Steve takes the chance to unpin the rose from his shirt and tuck it into the open mouth of the empty Miller High Life can beside him. He’s pretty sure there’s no way he’s as drunk as last night, not off bellini and canned beer, but everything still feels kinda syrupy and slow—it’s the most at peace he’s been in ages, actually. He’s never had the experience of being so cut off from the stresses of the outside world until this television show, and this television show’s never been this little of a nightmare hellscape. “...Stop smiling so much, you sap, or your face’ll freeze that way.”

“It’s not my fault!” Besides, it’s not like Bucky isn’t smiling right back at him. If his face is gonna freeze in any particular way, this isn’t a bad way to go. “Apparently I’m your  _ friend _ or whatever, I’m allowed to be excited that you’re sticking around. Getting to tell you ‘I told you so’ doesn’t hurt, either.”

“What, is that why you were waiting by the door with my bag like a military wife or somethin’?” Up close, Bucky’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. It’d be endearing or something, if he weren’t kind of an asshole. “I remember you saying something earlier this week, ‘best of wives—’”

“Oh my God, shut up.” For a second, he considers sneaking a hand over Bucky’s mouth again to shut him up, but Bucky hasn’t had reason to smile all week and it’d be a shame to cover it now. “Just because you’re safe now doesn’t mean you get to be a jerk about it—I’m still up on the chopping block, aren’t I?” He tries to school his face into a pout, but he’s pretty sure he’s still smiling too hard. “If I go home tomorrow, do you  _ really _ want the last thing you ever say to me to be—”

Bucky jostles against Steve’s leg as he laughs, shaking his head and looking up at him with the same bright gaze he’s only ever directed at Steve, shining and steady with complete certainty. He wears his smile well; it lights up his whole face. “You’re not going home.” 

Inexplicably, Steve feels his stomach flip in his stomach as Bucky nuzzles a little further into Steve’s warmth and lets his eyes flutter shut. On the other side of the room, Wade crows in victory as he sweeps another game.

It’s been the worst fucking week, sure. But today’s a good day.

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W5D6_SR3_C19_MC1.mxf**

_ [Steve and Bucky are in the sideroom closest to their shared bedroom, both already dressed to the nines in familiar suit-and-tie combinations. Steve’s sitting on the armchair, legs spread; Bucky sits on the floor in front of him, scowling fiercely as Steve clumsily manipulates his hair.  _ American Gods _ lies forgotten on the coffee table.] _

“Are you—” _ [Bucky’s rolls his eyes upward, as if trying to look at his hair.] _ “Are you improvising on my head again?”

_ [Steve says nothing. You know, like a coward.] _

“Oh my God, just do the proper goddamn braid!”

“If you wanted it plain, you should’ve asked Thor to do it.”  _ [Steve curls his hand briefly into Bucky’s hair and tugs before sighing and grabbing the comb from Bucky’s hands, smoothing it back out.] _

“I  _ would _ ask him to do it, if he weren’t busy doing his own hair.”  _ [Bucky sighs, slapping Steve’s hand a little late in retribution even as he smiles reluctantly.] _ “Oh my God—what the fuck are you—Steven  _ fucking _ Rogers!”

“I’m an  _ artist, _ Bucky, you’re stifling my creative freedom—”

“I swear to God if you don’t make my hair into a normal braid  _ right fucking now, _ I will just—I will keep on spoiling  _ Parks and Recreation _ for you, Steve.”  _ [Bucky shakes his head, glaring at nothing in particular. A door opens and closes as Cameron passes in front of the camera, entering and exiting the room quickly; he doesn’t so much as look twice at the strange scene unfolding before him.] _

“Alright, alright. I’m taking care of it.”  _ [Steve rolls his eyes, sticking out his tongue even though Bucky can’t seen it as he parts Bucky’s hair.] _ “...Oh, by the way, how do I look? Any judgement calls?”

“Hm...”  _ [Bucky sighs, reaching back and gently taking Steve’s hands out of his hair before standing up and dusting off his pants. He motions for Steve to get out of his chair and spin; Steve does so, rolling his eyes.] _ “...Nah, you look good.”

“You sure?”  _ [Steve grins.] _ “I  _ did _ pick this one on my own while you were out, and I’m pretty sure you had  _ something _ to say about this purple shirt that is, by the way, still definitely yours—”

“Shut the fuck up.”  _ [Bucky smirks back, crossing his arms and shifting his weight onto one leg as he looks Steve up and down critically. Steve fidgets a little at the attention, shifting his gaze away self-consciously.] _ “You clean up nicely, no need to get an inflated ego about it.”

“...Thanks.”  _ [Steve turns his head away from the camera for a moment, but even then it’s easy to see that the tips of his ears are bright red. When he turns back, his smile’s a little more sheepish.] _ “Alright, sit back down already. Do you want me to braid your hair or not?”

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W5D6_MB_C49_MC.mxf**

_ [If the sound of light background chatter is any indication, the rose ceremony is already in full swing. Bucky’s sitting in one of the bar stools, nursing a scotch and monologuing eagerly with the occasional hand motion; Steve is standing next to him, leaning on the counter of the minibar and listening intently.] _

“I mean, I basically got my dream date this week—it’s literally what I put on my application.”  _ [Bucky takes a slow drink, resting his chin in his hand and humming for a second as he thinks.] _ “Now that I’ve knocked that one out, my ideal date would probably have to be somewhere tropical.”

“Huh, really?”  _ [Steve cocks his head.] _ “Why’s that?”

“I don’t know, my mom was more the ‘historical landmark’ kind of vacation person. I don’t think I’ve ever had time off where I’ve just done  _ literally  _ nothing, so I’d want a date like that—low stakes, just lazing around with someone for a few hours.”  _ [He shrugs.] _ “Besides, part of the reason why I came here is to travel...”

“Well, if the show’s track record is any indication, we’ll be travelling overseas this week.”  _ [Steve nods to himself; he doesn’t have a drink of his own, but he picks up Bucky’s scotch and Bucky doesn’t make any move to stop him.]  _ “‘Course, if the show’s track record is any indication, you’re also more likely to spend a date scaling waterfalls or riding elephants than doing anything near the realm of ‘low-key’...”

“Listen, I’ve served my time. I’ve  _ done _ my part for the drama engine.”  _ [Bucky holds out his hand; Steve passes him the scotch, but not before grimacing at the taste.] _ “Is it too much to ask for a day off to lie on a nice, private beach and have some nice, private time with some nice, private alcohol and  _ not _ have to worry about other people for a while? I’d settle for leaving my goddamn room, even.”

“If I were you, I’d try to settle for sitting in a nice patch of warm sun...light…”  _ [Steve trails off, looking somewhere over Bucky’s shoulder, and stands a little straighter; Bucky swivels in his seat to follow his gaze.] _

“Huh.” _ [Bucky turns back, smirking.] _ “You talked to her yet?”

“No, not since the group date.”  _ [Steve purses his lips as his gaze drops to the counter.] _ “Don’t know what I’d say, if I’m being honest. The debate was kind of a disaster.” 

_ [Bucky gives him a skeptical look. Steve sighs.] _

“Alright, yes, it was me.  _ I _ was kind of a disaster.”

“That’s what you get for getting involved.”  _ [Bucky’s words carry no heat; he blinks at Steve for a long moment, assessing his expression, before sighing and tapping him sharply on the forehead.]  _ “Hey, listen—are you listening to me?”

“Hm?”  _ [Steve lifts his head, eyes focusing on Bucky.] _

“Good.”  _ [Bucky reaches out and takes Steve’s face in both hands, shaking him a little for emphasis.] _ “Now that you’re listening to me, you’re gonna do what I tell you to do.”

“Make me.”  _ [The words are out of Steve’s mouth automatically; clearly, it’s instinct. Bucky scowls before the words are even out of his mouth, having anticipated this exact reaction.] _

“Don’t think I won’t.”  _ [He shakes him again for emphasis.] _ “Now that you’re listening to me, you’re gonna do what I tell you to do because if you  _ don’t, _ I’m gonna spoil  _ Parks and Recreation  _ for you.”

“You don’t scare me—”

“You’re gonna do what I tell you to do, because if you don’t, I will spoil the second season of  _ The Good Place  _ for you.”

_ [Steve narrows his eyes.] _ “...You wouldn’t.”

“Jesus, Steve, it’s not my fault you don’t have Netflix!”

“I  _ did, _ it’s just that Sam kicked me off his account—”

“Your girlfriend is literally right outside that door right now,  _ alone _ for once in her goddamn life.”  _ [Bucky sighs exasperatedly and scrabbles one of his hands over Steve’s mouth, cutting him off securely and dragging him in so that Steve stumbles a few steps closer to the bar stool.] _ “You’ve been, frankly speaking, a bad boyfriend to her all week.”  _ [Bucky tilts his head, expression softening for a second.] _ “Mainly because you’ve been worrying about me, I grant you—”

_ [Steve mumbles something unintelligible. Bucky rolls his eyes.] _

“—yeah, yeah, Eliza Hamilton, best of women, you’ve been an excellent wife. But you’ve been a shitty,  _ shitty _ boyfriend.”  _ [Bucky jerks his head back in that general direction, fingers tightening on Steve’s cheek when he looks like he’s about to protest.] _ “Whether you want to admit it or not, that woman pretty obviously prioritizes you a lot more than the rest of us—no, I’m right, you’re wrong, shut  _ up— _ and you’ve been keeping her in the dark all week.”

_ [Steve rears back, scowling.] _ “Because you told me to!”

“I know.”  _ [Bucky nods.] _ “And honestly, I wish you’d never gotten dragged into this—”

_ [Somehow, the scowl gets darker.] _ “Like I’d stay out, with all the shit Brock was doing—”

_ [Bucky sighs, putting his hand back over Steve’s mouth with a mixture of fondness and exasperation.]  _ “Yeah, yeah, I know.”  _ [He glances over his shoulder, making sure Sharon’s still there.] _ “Point is, you owe it to you, your relationship, and to  _ her  _ to go sort things out. Pull her aside and tell her what happened, be honest about your feelings, communicate like a normal person, etcetera etcetera.”

“...Okay, but you—”

“—Have a rose, and will be fine without my emotional support Steve for ten fucking minutes.”  _ [Bucky sighs, slipping off the bar stool and moving closer to his friend; he brushes lint off Steve’s shoulder and fiddles with his tie for a second before taking a step back.] _ “I wanted to go talk to Scott about something anyway.  _ Go.” _

“...But consider this, what if I—”

_ “Steven Grant Rogers!” _

“Alright,  _ mom, _ I’m going, I’m going!”

“Oh, like you’ve got room to talk,  _ house dad—” _

_ [Bucky sticks out his tongue as Steve flips him off in farewell, the two leaving the room through opposite exits and abandoning the scotch on the counter. The room stays empty for a few quiet moments before Steve reenters, accompanied this time by Sharon in her requisite ball gown.] _

“Is this where you’re taking me?”  _ [Sharon grins, taking the same seat that Bucky was in earlier as Steve neatly sweeps up the scotch and downs it before she can get a good look.] _ “I  _ could _ do with a refill...”

“That bad of a week, huh?”  _ [Steve smiles back, but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes.] _

“You tell me.”  _ [She stops smiling too, leaning toward him and matching his tone.] _ “What happened with you during the group date? I mean, I know everyone was a little off, what with Brock and Bucky back in the house—”

“Well, the stuff with Jack during the date didn’t exactly help.”  _ [Steve frowns down into Bucky’s empty glass for a second; when he speaks again, he sounds almost reluctant.]  _ “I’m sorry that I was—well, I’m sorry I wasn’t all there. I kinda lost my temper during the debate, and it threw me off for the rest of the day. I couldn’t focus on our relationship.”  _ [He scowls into the cup almost defiantly before tilting his chin up stubbornly.] _ “Although—look, Sharon, you  _ are _ a priority, but I can’t just look aside when—”

“No, I understand. I was just as angry when I found out, I swear.”  _ [Sharon nods, eyeing him carefully until he relaxes.] _ “You feel very strongly about this, right?”

“...Well, I never did learn to keep my mouth shut.”  _ [Steve shrugs amicably.]  _ “Besides, I’ve gotten pretty close to Bucky.”

“I’m glad to hear it. You two seem pretty well-liked.”  _ [She lowers her voice.] _ “Between you and me, some of the other men have started calling him the house mom, and...well, Tony never  _ stopped _ calling you the house dad, so...”

_ [She trails off meaningfully; Steve blinks owlishly for a second before smirking abruptly.] _ “...Is that so?”

“Mhm.”  _ [Sharon smiles knowingly.] _ “Is it true you cook them breakfast?”

“Honestly, between me and Bucky,  _ I _ might be the mom.” 

_ [The two of them laugh, even though it’s not particularly funny; when Steve stops chuckling long enough to look at Sharon again, he looks more relieved than anything.]  _ “Listen, I really am sorry about the group date—”

_ [Sharon waves a hand, shaking her head.] _ “No, I get it. You were worried, it threw you all off—and, frankly speaking, I’d be more alarmed if you  _ could _ just shove the stuff in the house aside and act like nothing was wrong.”  _ [She frowns a little.] _ “I do wish you could’ve come to me about it, though; like I told Bucky during our date, I want you guys to trust me enough to know I’m not that type of person.”

“I mean...”  _ [Steve sighs.] _ “I kind of wanted to, sure. But Bucky trusted us not to talk to you about it; he wanted to sort it out himself.”  _ [He smiles to himself, crossing his arms as his gaze goes unfocused.] _ “And he calls  _ me _ a stubborn asshole.”

_ [Sharon tilts her head for a second, brow furrowing as she watches him. It’s a sharp, analytical look; in that moment it’s clear to see how she might be Agent Margaret Carter’s great-niece. In the next moment, she blinks again and her expression is placid once more.] _ “Well, I’m glad you’re a man of your word. If you don’t have trust in a relationship, what else is there?”

_ [Steve nods, and the two lapse into silence for a long, slightly awkward moment. Finally, Sharon stands, smiling apologetically.] _

“I wish I could stay, but I’ve got more men to talk to and I wouldn’t want to keep you any longer.”  _ [She holds out her hand.] _ “Walk me back into the lion’s den?”

_ [Steve nods, offering her his arm; she smiles, leaning up to kiss him briefly, and the two leave together.] _

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W5D6_SR2_C70_QS.mxf**

_ [The camera’s trained on Bucky, Steve, and Rhodey; the three of them are grinning directly into the lens, standing in front of a crackling fireplace. The shot is out of focus, presumably because Pietro is shaking with barely-concealed laughter. Nearby, Wanda’s laughing helplessly herself, although she’s muffling it as best she can.] _

“Ready?”  _ [Bucky grins.] _

_ [Wanda gasps for air, voice coming briefly into focus.]  _ “We’re  _ not _ supposed to be doing this!”

_ [Pietro ignores her; his thumbs-up enters the shot.]  _ “Ready!”

“Someone give me a beat.”  _ [Pietro starts beatboxing semi-coherently. Bucky grins, drawls out a thank you that’s lost to the beatboxing, and throws himself wholeheartedly into Burr’s rap.] _

“There’s nothing rich folks love more than going downtown and slumming it with the poor!”  _ [He puts a hand on his hip, tossing his head back dramatically.] _ “They pull up in their carriages and gawk at the students in the commons just to watch ‘em talk!”

_ [Wanda abruptly shrieks in hysterical laughter, her footsteps thundering away as she runs off to regain her dignity somewhere else.] _

“Take Philip Schuyler; the man is loaded.”  _ [Bucky bows and neatly side-steps; Steve and Rhodey come forward.]  _ “Uh oh, but little does he know that his daughters—Peggy, Angelica, Eliza—sneak into the city just to watch all the guys at—”

“Work, work!”  _ [Pietro sings helpfully. Rhodey steps to the center.] _

“Angelica!”

_ [Steve trails a step behind; miraculously, he can hit the high notes.] _ “Eliza!”

_ [Seemingly out of nowhere, Tony Stark pops into the shot between the singers, planting a hand on Steve and Rhodey’s shoulders. The two men jump backward with a jolt; Rhodey actually lets out a startled scream.]  _ “And Peggy!”

_ [Tony steps back, runs a hand through his hair, and strolls back out, presumably on the way to Sharon’s dressing room. The three contestants stare after him in awe for a moment before sharing a look like they’ve all just won the lottery.] _

* * *

**ITM: Jack Rollins**

“I’m not surprised I got eliminated, actually. The moment Brock left, I knew I was a goner.”  _ [Jack scowls angrily.] _ “I bet Bucky and Steve said something to Sharon and turned her against me after the debate. The axis of evil going on there or whatever...honestly, fuck this.”  _ [He rolls his eyes.] _ “Y’know, it must be nice to actually have Sharon on your side.”

_ [The producer says something. Jack blinks for a second, startled, then throws his hands in the air.] _

“No, that’s not—that’s not a fucking reference!”  _ [He nearly gets out of his seat.] _ “I’m so fucking  _ sick _ of hearing about that dumb musical all week, god  _ damn _ it!”

* * *

**ITM: Wade Wilson**

_ “Why, Wade?” _

“Why what?”  _ [Wade’s got his tie hanging loose around his shoulders.] _

_ “When you get eliminated.” [Pepper sounds like she’s struggling not to scream—or not to laugh.] “When you get eliminated, and Tony Stark tells you to take a moment and say your goodbyes.” _

_ [Wade shrugs, raising an eyebrow.] _ “Well, I mean, that’s what I did—I said goodbye.”

_ “And then you’re supposed to go up to Sharon.” [Pepper draws in a slow breath.] “Hug her. Wish her luck. And then you are supposed to leave the room. Without doing anything stupid.” _

“...Well, you never  _ prepared _ me for elimination, so really, I feel like that’s on you—”

_ “YOU SANG AN ENTIRE SONG FROM THE HAMILTON SOUNDTRACK.” _

“It would’ve been two, actually, if you hadn’t ran in halfway through the—”

_ “TWO SONGS FROM THE HAMILTON SOUNDTRACK.” _

“Well, I mean, ‘History Has Its Eyes on You’ is a classic. That one just had to be done.”  _ [Wade shrugs, stuffing one hand in his pockets and pointing at the camera with the other, looking directly into it.]  _ “And hey, you  _ do  _ actually have your eyes on them! I’m not wrong!”

_ “WADE!” _

“And then—I mean, I  _ was _ getting eliminated. The ‘Stay Alive’ reprise seemed fitting.”

_ “IT WASN’T.” _

“I mean, Sharon played along with it and let me swoon dramatically into her arms and everything, so you tell  _ me _ how fitting—”

_ “YOU MADE THOR CRY.” _

“Yeah.”  _ [Wade sighs, clicking his tongue sympathetically and shaking his head.] _ “Well. Philip was taken before his time, really, and it  _ is _ the emotional climax of the musical—”

_ “WHY?!” _

“Oh, forgive me.” _ [He puts a hand over his heart, narrowing his eyebrows in fake annoyance.] _ “Forgive me for being  _ too _ emotional. For singing  _ too _ beautifully. For being  _ too _ loved.”  _ [He points to the cameras again, grinning maniacally.] _ “And hey, it’ll be good for television, won’t it? Strong men crying, that shit’s worth a million bucks, so really I’m doing your job  _ for  _ you—”

_ [Pepper screams something unintelligible in exasperation.] _

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W5D6_RC_MR_C40_QS.mxf**

_ [The remaining eight men are crowded once more around Sharon, holding glasses of champagne. Off to the side, Thor surreptitiously wipes his eyes; Bruce pats him comfortingly on the back.] _

“As I get to know you guys and form real relationships with you, the rose ceremonies just get harder and harder.”  _ [Sharon shakes her head.] _ “But at this point, I truly believe that my husband is in this room, and knowing that I’ll be with him at the end of this journey—well, that’s worth everything to me.”

_ [No one quite knows what reaction to have; from the looks of things, not even Sharon is entirely sure.] _

“With that in mind, I’m excited to get to know all of you better next week.”  _ [She smiles tentatively, raising her glass.] _ “Pack your bags, boys—we’re going to Bucharest!”

“Holy _shit.”_ _[Bucky’s voice carries so loudly that the other men barely have a chance to express their expected excitement; a genuine grin’s spreading across his face.]_ “Is this real? Is this Christmas?”

“Ignore him, please.”  _ [Steve plucks the glass delicately out of Bucky’s grip, smiling innocently as he sets it aside. As he straightens again, he nudges Bucky excitedly with his elbow.]  _ “He’s drunk.”

_ [Sharon laughs; the rest of the men resume their general commentary on how excited they are for their next location, a little more amused than before.]  _ “Well, I’m glad you’re excited.”  _ [She raises her glass again.] _ “Romania!”

_ [The men raise their glasses accordingly; in the absence of a glass, Bucky raises a fist in the air.]  _ “ROMANIA!”

_ [They drink together; almost immediately afterwards, Tony taps Sharon on the shoulder and graciously ushers her out of the room. The men, by now used to this routine, begin dispersing among themselves. As the producers remind the contestants to pack their bags before Saturday morning and the contestants complain amongst each other about their collective exhaustion, Bucky and Steve step away together and clink their glasses of champagne cheerfully together.] _

“You excited?”

“What gave it away?”  _ [Bucky drains his champagne in one go. The two lean comfortably against the wall; Steve bumps his shoulder against Bucky’s, eliciting a broad smile.]  _

“Hey, does this mean we’re getting a headstart on that roadtrip we were planning back in Phoenix?”

_ [Bucky laughs, tilting his head back so that he briefly leans it against Steve’s shoulder. It’s fast enough to be entirely accidental.]  _ “Buddy, I’ve got a lot to prepare you for.”

* * *

**Uncut Footage: W5D7_MR_C03_MC1.mxf**

_ [The camera is currently filming the main room of the hotel suite; it’s entirely quiet and entirely deserted. For a long moment, nothing happens...and then there’s the sound of the front door of the suite unlocking and opening, followed by a few recognizable voices.] _

“We know it’s a blackout day; I promise, we’re not here to film you.”  _ [Pepper calls out tentatively.] _ “We’re just gonna collect the equipment we’ve got set up and leave.”

“...Hang on.”  _ [Maria Hill, another one of the producers, comes into view of the camera; she looks around herself, frowning.] _ “Where  _ is _ everyone?”

“Probably doing something together in one of the other rooms.”  _ [That’s Sharon’s producer, Phil Coulson.] _ “Well, let’s not go out of our way to disturb them...Wanda, Pietro, Peter?”

“On it. Peter, find the case”  _ [The camera abruptly shifts as Pietro picks it up, swivelling it around and examining it; his and Wanda’s faces appear in the shot, squinting down into the lens.]  _ “Serial number: 101611111218.”

“Got it.”  _ [Peter Parker’s voice is distant, largely lost in the rummaging of bags.] _ “Ready to pack it up?”

“Almost, let me just run through final checks—”

“Hang on.”  _ [Pepper sounds confused.]  _ “Do you guys hear something?”

_ [Pietro and Wanda raise their heads, looking together toward the direction of Pepper’s voice.] _

“...Hear what?”

“Sounds like Bucky.”  _ [There’s the distinct click of Pepper’s high heels against the floor.] _ “Pietro, if you’d be so kind—”

“Yep.”  _ [Pietro nods as he hoists the camera back up onto his shoulder, the shot swivelling back around to capture Pepper looking back at him; she nods, satisfied, and leads the way further into the suite. Sure enough, Bucky’s voice begins carrying down the hallway, accompanied by the low murmur of hushed conversation.] _

“What the hell are they doing?”

“Who knows?”

_ “...knew he couldn’t stop the intruders but he won the vital minutes necessary for Cooper to clamber over a back fence and rush down to the Hudson.” [As they round a corner, the camera begins to pick up Bucky’s words more clearly; there’s light coming from the sideroom, alongside the rustle of movement. Pepper scowls and begins walking faster.] “Of all the incidents in Hamilton’s early life in America, his spontaneous defense of Myles Cooper was probably the most telling.” _

_ [The producers and crew round the last corner, coming to a stop in the same sideroom closest to Bucky and Steve’s bedroom.] _

“It showed that he could separate personal honor from political convictions and presaged a recurring theme of his career: the superiority of forgiveness over revenge.”

_ [Bucky’s kneeling on the floor in a bathrobe, a pillow from the couch wedged firmly under his knees; he’s technically facing the doorway the producers just came pouring in from, but it takes him a second to notice, his attention firmly on the copy of Chernow’s  _ Alexander Hamilton _ biography in his hands. Other than Bucky, Steve and Thor are the only other two facing the producers; Steve is seated behind Bucky on the couch, attempting a complicated updo while Thor, who’s sitting next to Steve, offers the occasional pointer. The other five men are all sprawled at various levels of comfort on the floor, listening with rapt attention as Bucky flips a page and continues reading aloud. Bruce is balancing a bowl of popcorn on his knees, sitting close enough to the couch that Thor can reach them too. Scott’s curled up into a ball between the coffee table and the armchair, gripping an entire bag of Doritos. Rhodey and Cameron are, scarily enough, wearing the same pajamas with small cartoon airplanes; the two are sharing a bowl of jelly-beans. T’Challa’s sitting perfectly cross-legged, tossing roasted almonds into the air and catching them perfectly in his mouth every time.] _

“Most of all, the episode captured the contradictory impulses struggling inside this complex young man, an ardent revolutionary with a profound dread that popular sentiment would boil over into dangerous exc—”

_ [Bucky glances up and immediately goes pale, slamming the book shut on instinct. Immediately, the seven others all turn in unison to stare blankly at the producers.] _

“What...”  _ [Pepper falters.]  _ “...is this?”

_ [Everyone’s quiet for a long moment, staring at each other in a tentative standoff. Finally, Bruce shrugs, crunching down on his mouthful of popcorn.]  _ “Uh...bedtime story?”

* * *

**ITM: Scott Lang**

“See? House mom.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THERE IS ART FOR THIS CHAPTER! The wildly talented odetteandodile rendered the scene where Steve does Bucky's hair in preparation for the rose ceremony (one of many times Steve does Bucky's hair over the course of the competition, lmao) and it's everything I've ever pictured. You can find it right [here!](http://odette-and-odile.tumblr.com/post/183572654498/steve-braiding-buckys-hair-for-senforzas-not)
> 
> uh. so.  
> -it's safe to say i'm far enough past the bang deadline that i'm no longer technically affiliated lmao  
> -i just...idk, i don't feel funny anymore? this chapter basically decided to smack me down with a hammer bc it kinda feels like hot stinking garbage and i wanna deliver for y'all but it feels very much like i'm failing lmao motivation's at an all-time low so i've been putting off publishing and also...ngh. please tell me what to do  
> so yeah. there's that. i'm finishing this tho god damn it and i'm finishing it fast god damn me alright here we go
> 
> -re: brock being a dick--producers can't like FORCE you to say anything or whatever, and you can generally tell when they're pushing you to say stuff, but it becomes a matter of 'we've been living together for so long that you know what fuck it' and also a healthy mix of just...douchebags.  
> -details for bachelection date ripped from becca's most recent season in richmond, virginia! with, yes, actually included presidential impersonators, dumb debates, and an actual federal government representative. was 'beccalection' but listen close enough  
> -my knowledge of cheap american beer comes entirely from eugene lee yang and his try guys video ranking cheap beers. i am a >21\. have pity on me.  
> -now here's a question i've been skirting around: is wade in this universe just...ryan reynolds?  
> -i'm here fixing the spacing and now i'm realizing that bucky says 'i love you' to pepper before he says it to steve or sharon, lmao  
> -'but sen, will peggy show up in person and play a major part of the story's climax?' well in week 10 the first event is always meeting the bachelor/ette's family and peggy carter's the baddest bitch i know so idk you tell me  
> -re: brock getting sent home--the producers/chris harrison can advise, but the decision IS ultimately up to the bachelorette. and sharon's not gonna stand for this shit, for multiple reasons: she's not gonna pretend to be into a homophobe, she's not gonna let brock stick around to harass bucky for drama points, etc etc  
> -peach bellinis courtesy of rosa diaz. "nancy myers, you've done it again, you saucy bitch."  
> -i keep saying maria hill is a producer bc idk if y'all are remembering it/if i've been too subtle LMAO  
> -“Serial number: 101611111218.” @grace @mucoke


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